


You and I

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingering, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rock and Roll, Rock and Roll AU, Singing, band au, singer Sherlock, soldier John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-24 13:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13812195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: Sherlock is a singer in the band Elementary. They're newly on the rise to fame and have a world of possibilities in front of them. John is a soldier home on leave, wanting to soak up London before returning to his post in Afghanistan. His friends pester him into going to a concert and it turns out to be the best decision he could have made.Their eyes meet from across the crowd and neither of them can shake the need to meet in person. After one passionate night, they mutually and unspokenly agree to keep it a one time thing. But, is once really enough for them?





	1. One Night Only

**Author's Note:**

> This story is heavily based on the music from the band The Struts. I love this band so much and I hear Johnlock in much of their music.

Greg Lestrade came busting into backstage with four bottle of water and buzzing with energy. “Okay, ladies and gent, we got ten minutes before we’re on.”

 

“Thank you, ten,” Sherlock said, an air of boredom in his voice to cover up the nerves. Without looking at his bandmate, he held out his hand for the water he knew he should be drinking before going onstage. He uncapped the water and took a swig while looking out from backstage at the gathering crowd. His band  _ Elementary  _ were opening for some band named  _ The Struts  _ and it was their first major break into the industry. They had done a couple open mic nights, a few shows at bars, and one or two music festivals on the free stages. But this was the first time their name had ended up on a marquee and Sherlock was feeling many things. 

 

Top of the list was the need for a cigarette. He scratched the scars on the inside of his elbow and thought  _ or perhaps something a bit stronger _ . In lieu of either, he took another swallow of water. His body felt jittery, restless, knowing that they were about to go out in front of a couple hundred people. Definitely more than their previous shows. He reasoned with himself that there was no reason to be nervous. They had practiced to the extent that they could do their set in their sleep. 

 

“C’mon Sherly, don’t work yourself up,” Irene said from behind him. She hugged him from behind, perching her chin on his shoulder as they both looked out over the gathering crowd. 

 

“Don’t call me Sherly,” he said, eyes never wavering from the crowd. 

 

“You trying to find prince charming out there?”

 

Sherlock huffed in amusement and turned his head to look at her. “Not in the slightest. Just getting a look at the battlefield, so to speak.”

 

Irene rolled her eyes. “So dramatic,” she said before letting him go and walking to collect her guitar.

 

“Pot, kettle,” he called after her, turning his eyes back to the crowd. 

 

The mass of people was shifting like a sentient sea, bodies bopping along to the radio music being pumped into the space while they waited, hands meeting mouths with plastic cups of beer, phones capturing selfies and instagram photos. Too much details to take in and they began to swim together and overwhelm Sherlock. It was just as he was about to drop the curtain and go through his vocal warm ups that he spotted him. 

 

A golden head finding its way through the crowd. A golden head that contained a megawatt smile sitting atop a delicious looking neck that flowed down to some sturdy looking shoulders which tapered to muscled arms that disappeared into the flow of the crowd. Sherlock’s mouth went dry. In the few seconds he was able to glimpse him he already had a wealth of information.  _ Slight tanning of the face and neck, short hair and recently cut, RAMC logo on shirt, accompanied by gaggle of friends, soldier on leave.  _

 

“Five minutes, everyone,” Greg called out. 

 

“Thanks, Greg. Have you seen my sticks?,” Molly said, panic in her voice. 

 

“Right here, love,” Irene replied. Sherlock dropped the curtain and finally put his head back where it belonged: getting ready for the show. He started doing his warm ups while Greg and Irene tuned their bass and guitar and Molly did her hand exercises to keep her fingers and wrists loose. In no time at all, the stage manager came through to collect them and usher them to the stage. 

 

The lights dimmed and the crowd began cheering, eager for the show to begin as the four band members walked on stage. They waved and smiled at the crowd as they took up their positions and when the noise dimmed a little, Sherlock made the introductions. 

 

“Evening, London! You’re looking lively tonight, I must say!” The crowd cheered at that and Sherlock chuckled, low and deep. “We have Greg on bass,” he pointed to Greg and a purple spotlight shined down on him. “Irene on guitar,” at his intro, a blue light shone on her. “Molly on drums,” he stepped aside so a beam of pink could shine on Molly. “And I,” he paused, scanning for the blonde soldier and, upon finding him, he hit him with a smolder. “Am Sherlock. And we are  _ Elementary!” _

 

And without anymore introduction, they dove right into the first song of the night. Irene strummed a chord and then Greg, Sherlock, and Irene sang into their mics, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh oh oh!” 

 

Sherlock began to belt,

 

_ “Breakfast is burning, kettle stopped working _ __  
_ Milk in the fridge gone sour _ __  
_ Ignorant faces, ice on my laces _ _  
_ __ Delays on the underground

__  
_ Petrol is rising, leaders are lying _ __  
_ Watching the world melt down _ __  
_ Signal is fading, can't hear what you're saying _ __  
_ My minutes are running out _ __  
  


_ She makes me feel like _

Then Irene and Greg came in on the backup with a succession of bouncy “ohs”

__  
_ She makes me feel like _ _  
_ __ She's my pick me up, pick me up”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, singing loudly, feeling the soundwaves from their music invade his body. He grasped the mic, singing into it, legs swaying and feet stomping along with the music. Halfway through the song he opened his eyes, looked between Irene and Molly and began singing the next verse to them.

__  
_ “When I wander alone, and she tells me she's home _ __  
_ Now I'm lost but it's me in control _ __  
_ It's the thought of her face that helps me pick up the pace _ __  
_ The days lost, but I know _ __  
_ She makes me feel like _ _  
_ __ She makes me feel like”

 

They finished the song to lots of cheering and Sherlock did a bow, bending his body in half at the waist like a ragdoll. When he straightened he said, “thank you all, that song was written by own very own Irene for Molly.”  

 

When the crowd did the expected “awwww”, Irene spoke on her mic. “Yes, yes, I know. Terribly romantic, isn’t it?”

 

“You know what’s better than romance, though,” Sherlock asked her, gearing up for the lead into their next song.

 

“What’s that, Sherly?”

 

Sherlock grinned, turned to the crowd and, finding the blond soldier again, he said in his most sultry voice, “dirty. Sexy. Money.”

 

As the crowd laughed and cheered, they started the next song and sang it through. Sherlock took the mic off its stand and danced around the stage, singing loudly and full of energy til the song ended. He was quick to notice that, while there were hundreds of pairs of eyes on him, one set in particular looked hungrier than the rest. His soldier was interested and he couldn’t help but feel a little zing of satisfaction zip through him. 

 

Molly spoke up on her mic and said, “for this next one, we’re gonna need a little audience participation!” She and the rest of the band began to clap her hands and when most of the audience was clapping along with them Greg began strumming the bass. Irene joined him on the guitar a few seconds later. Then Sherlock started singing. 

_ “Don't wanna live as an untold story _ __  
_ Rather go out in a blaze of glory _ __  
_ I can't hear you, I don't fear you _ __  
_ I'll live now 'cause the bad die last _ __  
_ Dodging bullets with your broken past _ __  
_ I can't hear you, I don't fear you now _ __  
_ Wrapped in your regret _ __  
_ What a waste of blood and sweat _ _  
_ __ Oh oh oh”

 

Sherlock began pumping his fists and jumping up and down on the stage to rile the crowd. 

__  
_ “I wanna taste love and pain _ __  
_ Wanna feel pride and shame _ __  
_ I don't wanna take my time _ __  
_ Don't wanna waste one line _ __  
_ I wanna live better days _ __  
_ Never look back and say _ __  
_ Could have been me _ __  
_ It could have been me _ _  
_ __ Yeah

__  
_ “Don't wanna live as an unsung melody _ __  
_ I'd rather listen to the silence telling me _ _  
_ __ I can't hear you, I won't fear you

 

He found the soldier staring at him, mouth agape as he watched. Sherlock smiled and, clutching the mic in both hands and bending down towards the crowd, kept on singing.

__  
_ “Don't wanna wake up on Monday morning _ __  
_ The thought of work is getting my skin crawling _ __  
_ I can't fear you, I don't hear you now _ __  
_ Wrapped in your regret _ __  
_ What a waste of blood and sweat _ _  
_ __ Oh oh oh

__  
_ I wanna taste love and pain _ __  
_ Wanna feel pride and shame _ __  
_ I don't wanna take my time _ __  
_ Don't wanna waste one line _ __  
_ I wanna live better days _ __  
_ Never look back and say _ __  
_ Could have been me _ __  
_ It could have been me _ _  
_ __ Yeah

 

He paused here and spoke to the crowd, “if you were listening and can keep up, sing along!” He held out the mic and the crowd joined him in singing:

__  
_ “I wanna taste love and pain _ __  
_ Wanna feel pride and shame _ __  
_ I don't wanna take my time _ __  
_ Don't wanna waste one line _ __  
_ I wanna live better days _ __  
_ Never look back and say _ __  
_ Could have been me _ __  
_ It could have been me _ __  
  


They finished the song strongly to a loud cheer. The soldier was still staring and, finally, their eyes locked for the first time all evening. The man licked his lips, taking a sip of his almost untouched beer and Sherlock felt a shudder creep down his spine. He grinned broadly, body full of adrenaline and ready to try something new. Something that would send a message. He turned to his bandmates and said called for a brief huddle. Convening around Molly’s drums, Sherlock turned off his mic and covered Molly’s with his hand.    
  


“What’s with the huddle, Sherlock?,” Greg asked. 

 

“Something wrong?,” Molly added, concerned. 

 

“I think we should do the new one,” Sherlock said. 

 

“But we haven’t practiced that as much,” Molly complained. 

 

Irene took one look at him and could see right through him. “Oh, I think our boy’s spotted a prize in the crowd.”

 

Greg rolled his eyes and said, “seriously?” 

 

“C’mon. It’s good enough. And it’s good practice, trying it out on a new crowd.” The other two agreed and they took their spots again. 

 

Sherlock spoke into the mic and said, “because you’ve been such a great crowd,” the audience cheered and clapped. Sherlock motioned for them to quiet down, “because you’ve been amazing, we’ve decided to share a brand new piece. And you lot are the first to hear it. Ready?” At their cheer, he asked again, “I said, “are you ready”?!” A louder cry from the crowd and they called for quiet. He found the man’s eyes in the crowd once more, wordlessly telling him that this song was for him. When it was all quiet, Sherlock started to sing in acapella.

 

_ “I'll give you one night only _ __  
_ For your eyes only _ __  
  


One by one, the other band members joined in, “ _ Oh, oh, oh” _

 

Irene began to strum the guitar and Molly began a quick but soft beat. Sherlock began alone again to their rhythm.

__  
_ “Like an eagle in the sky _ __  
_ You can't control it _ __  
_ There's a magic in my eyes _ __  
_ And I can't stop it burning down _ __  
_ On the edge of tonight _ _  
_ __ 'Cause tomorrow we'll be owning the world

__  
_ All my scars have got a tune _ __  
_ There's a fire in my heart _ __  
_ And I can't stop it burning down _ __  
_ On the edge of tonight _ _  
_ __ 'Cause tomorrow we'll be ruling the world

_  
_ He caressed the mic stand with his body, almost obscenely.

 

“ _ And you know like pure, white gold _ __  
_ I'll give you one night only _ __  
_ For your eyes only _ __  
_ If entertaining's what you want _ __  
_ Then honey, I'm the best _ __  
_ I know that we're together _ __  
_ For all your pleasure _ __  
_ Forever, forever, forever _ _  
_ __ This is how we burn

 

They rocked their way through the song and at the end Sherlock could swear he would be hearing the roars of their cheers for days. Arms spread wide in victory, he drank it in for a moment before taking another bow. 

 

“Thank you, London! And now, we’ll bugger off so you can see the band you all paid to see!  _ The Struts _ are up next! If you’d like a copy of our EP-”

Irene broke in on her own mic, “-or to flirt with the single members of the band,” and pointed to Greg and Sherlock.

 

“Then we’ll be at the merch table after the show. Thank you!” He blew a kiss to the crowd and, together, the band exited the stage. 

 

Once they were offstage, the band cornered him. 

 

“Alright, then,” Greg confronted. “Who captured your attention then, hmm?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied honestly. “But by the end of the night, I will.” 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

John hadn’t originally wanted to come but there was no use in telling Mike Stamford or Bill Murray “no”. He only had a couple days left on leave and he had really wanted to relax and get the desert out of his lungs, swallow as much London air as he could before he had to go back. But they had already bought tickets and were relentless. He had almost backed out when they told him that they had bought an RAMC t-shirt for him to wear to the concert, too. 

 

“C’mon, Watson! It’ll get you all the drinks and numbers you could want all night!,” Murray insisted.

 

“And much more appropriate than your jumpers,” Mike added. 

 

“I like my jumpers, thank you very much,” John complained. 

 

“Yes, we know. Hence why we bought you the shirt. Now, quit your whinging and get your shit together or we’ll be late.”

 

As it turned out, going to the concert was the best thing John could have done with his leave. From the second the lead singer of  _ Elementary _ came swanning onstage, he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from him. The man, Sherlock, looked like sex on legs. Messy, black hair, eyes darkened with makeup, tight leather pants paired with a very loose purple tank top with very open sides and dripping in rhinestones. And then,  _ god, _ when he opened his mouth…

 

The man was obscene. Voice with a range that dipped to a low purr and rolled up to a higher whine. At first, he hadn’t noticed that Sherlock was looking at him because, really, why would he be looking at him? One face in a crowd of hundreds. But by the third song he was sure that he was being watched from the stage and he couldn’t deny the longing he had for a man he had never seen or heard of before that night. Before the last song he opened ogled Sherlock’s arse as he bent over in an impromptu huddle.

 

Mike nudged him and laughed, “gettin’ an eyeful there, Watson?”

 

“Can’t blame a man, though, can you?”

 

“No, certainly not when it comes to Three Continents.”

 

John grinned and shoved him playfully. “Get off it, mate.”

 

Mike shoved him back, “play your cards right  _ you _ just might get off.”

 

John opened his mouth to reply when Sherlock’s voice came back on the mic. “Because you’ve been such a great crowd,” the crowd’s noise made him pause but he started again, “because you’ve been amazing, we’ve decided to share a brand new piece. And you lot are the first to hear it. Ready?”

 

John raised an eyebrow, curious. He joined the voices that assured the band that they were ready and Sherlock asked again. “I said, “are you ready”?!”

 

Then, as the audience screamed loudly for the song to start, Sherlock found him. John’s mouth felt dry so he took a sip of his beer and found himself unable to look away. Once he began to sing, there was no doubt in his mind Sherlock was looking directly at him.

 

All through the song John could feel arousal pool inside him. The kind of arousal that sat, waiting patiently for an opportune moment to strike.  _ One night only, eh? _ John thought to himself.  _ I can live with that.  _

 

The rest of the concert was a good time. They sang along with the music, he had managed to down a few drinks, the lads were pleasant company. When the show ended, his mates were ready to hit the pubs for some after-concert-drinks. “Are you coming, John?,” Mike asked. 

 

John motioned for them to go on without him. “I’ll catch up. I think I’m going to take a pass at the merchandise before moving on.”

 

Mike and Murray shared a knowing smile between them. “Well, do let us know what you end up taking home, then,” Murray added, earning him a loud guffaw from Mike. John just smiled and got in the long line that wound its way up to the merch table. If he was suffering from an overinflated sense of ego and Sherlock had meant nothing by that song then at worst he would go home with a CD and it would be nothing that a well placed shot at the pub wouldn’t hurt. But if he was right, and  _ god _ did he want to be right, he could be in for a longer night. Either way, come hell or high water, he would meet Sherlock and find out. 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Just as Sherlock had hoped, the soldier had found his way to the merch table at the end of the show. 

 

The room was almost entirely empty, just a few fans left clamouring for merchandise plastered with  _ The Struts _ ’ faces plastered all over it.  _ Elementary  _ had made decent sales for being a relatively unknown band opening for a larger, well known one. Greg had received a few numbers from some very eager women and some came up to talk to Molly and Irene about how much they loved the song Irene wrote. Sherlock was left to deal with most of the fans who were there for signatures. A few came up to try and flirt with him, as Irene had suggested, but Sherlock laughed them all off, being polite but firm. Assuring them that “no, I’m not in the market, thank you” before signing a shirt or CD and taking a picture with the fans. He didn’t particularly enjoy leaning halfway out of a tall booth in order to take a proper picture, but that’s the price of show business he supposed.  

 

But finally,  _ finally! _ , the man had made his way to the front of the line. 

 

Sherlock stood tall and straight and, noticing the change in posture, Greg whispered in his ear, “is that who we upset our setlist for?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said, brushing Greg off as the man approached the counter. “Hello,” he greeted the man with a wave, “enjoy the show?”

 

The man nodded. “Yes, I did.” He tilted his head with a smug grin, “particularly that last song.”

 

Sherlock felt his cheeks get a little warm at the accusation. “Is that so?” He swallowed and bent over the counter so that they were eye level with each other. “What else did you like?”

 

The man leaned against the counter, bringing their faces closer together. “I liked the way you were staring at me.”

 

Sherlock blinked. Externally, his face was calm and confident. Internally he was screaming  _ shithenoticedofcoursehenoticedyoumadesureofthatsaysomethingclever!  _ A second later he went, “and how do you know I was staring at you?”

 

The man grinned wolfishly, “because I spent the whole set staring at you and know when I’m being watched back.” He extended a hand, eyes staying locked on Sherlock’s, “the name’s John Watson.”

 

Sherlock took his hand and replied, “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

They held hands in silence long after it was appropriate to do so, holding each other’s gazes. It took a nudge from Irene to bring him back to reality. 

 

“Sherly, we’re packing up. Time to get outta here!”

 

Sherlock took his hand back, flustered. “Oh, um. Of course.” He refocused to John and said, “we need to break down but, if you’re interested in,” Sherlock lifted his eyebrow suggestively to emphasize, “coffee or something, we should be done here in about twenty minutes.” 

 

John smiled and licked his lips. “I think I could go for a coffee. Twenty minutes you said?”

 

“Yes. Stage door, alley on the side. Twenty minutes.” 

 

“See you there, Sherlock,” John said, winking before turning and walking toward the exit. 

 

“Did he just fucking wink at you?,” Irene asked, laugh already bubbling out of her mouth.

 

“Weren’t you the one who said we needed to get out of here? Let’s get packing,” Sherlock replied in lieu of an answer. 

 

Twenty minutes later found him exiting the alley stage door, quickly shoving his arms into his leather jacket and almost running into John in his haste. 

 

“Oof, steady on,” John said with a chuckle, hands coming up to brace him by the shoulders when they nearly collided. 

 

“You’re here,” Sherlock said, genuinely surprised. 

 

“I am. You mentioned coffee.”

 

“Yes. My place.” Sherlock took his hand and began dragging him toward the street. “Wouldn’t want to put your friends out by taking you back to whichever couch you’re sleeping on at the moment.”

 

John stopped abruptly. “What?”

 

_ Shit. Shitshitshit. Cocked it up already.  _ Sherlock sighed and braced himself. 

 

“How did you know I was staying at a friend’s house? Did Mike put you up to this? Murray?”

 

“No, I just...I observed.”

 

“You observed?”

 

“I can see your living situation in your face and clothes, your occupation in your hands, hair and tan line, and I can see your interest in coffee fading the more I talk. I apologize.”

“No, no,” John said. “Tell me how you know.” He leaned up against a brick wall and crossed his arms, smirking. “I’m curious.”

 

Sherlock raked his eyes over him and said with rapid fire, “your hair says active military due to the close crop and freshness of the haircut. Tan line says somewhere warm with lots more sun than London, either Afghanistan or Iraq, I’m sure. Your clothes say that you’ve borrowed a pair of jeans from a friend and the shirt is new, too, because it’s still crisp and creased from the packaging. It also shows you’re medical personnel. Special order for this occasion, no doubt. And I can tell you’re sleeping over at a friend’s because, while you’re holding yourself confidently and seem very awake and eager, there’s signs of fatigue on your face like you’ve not slept all that deep. Coming from an active warzone that’s understandable but it’s also because you’ve been sleeping on a couch and not a bed.” Shyly, he added. “How’d I do?”

 

John’s mouth, agape, clicked shut. Then, with a fond smile he answered him. “I am active military. I’m a surgeon in the army working out of Afghanistan. I’m home on leave, been here almost two weeks. I go back in two days. And I’ve been sleeping on Murray’s couch. Spot on.”

 

John smoothly came off the wall and walked towards Sherlock, backing him to the wall behind him. Sherlock’s back hit the wall and he felt dizzy with the sudden rush of arousal that shot southward. 

 

“That,” John said, leaning up on his toes to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “was the sexiest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

 

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Th-that’s not what people normally say.”

 

John chuckled, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine. “Is that so? What do they normally say?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“How about “fuck you” instead?” With that, John pressed his body up against Sherlock’s while he sucked his earlobe into his mouth. Sherlock could feel John’s hard cock press up against his own and his traitorous body let a pained whine escape his throat without his permission. “Is that a yes?”

 

“Fuck yes,” Sherlock told him with no uncertainty. 

 

“Then lead the way,” John said, taking a step back to give Sherlock room to move. 

 

On unsteady feet, Sherlock lead them to the curb. It took no time to flag down a cab and get them going in the direction of Baker Street. It was all Sherlock could do to keep his hands clasped in his lap over his very insistent erection instead of exploring John like he longed to do. When they arrived at his flat, Sherlock paid the driver and lead the way inside. 

John’s soft voice called to him. “Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock turned to ask what was the hold up, only to be cut off by John’s hand coming up to cup his cheek, followed by John’s lips coming up to meet his own. Sherlock gasped in surprise but quickly regained himself and began to kiss John back. He opened up to John’s probing tongue, letting him dip inside to taste him. He gave as good as he got, gripping John by the hips to pull him close, reigniting the slowly burning fire that had been lit in him from the second their eyes met onstage. 

 

Effortlessly, John had pressed him to the wall, stepping in between Sherlock’s legs to deliver a torturously slow grind while they kissed. At Sherlock’s moan John groaned and repeated the movement while Sherlock’s own hips moved to chase the sensation John gave him. 

 

Eventually they had to come up for air and when they did they both gasped. 

 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John groaned, pressing their foreheads together as they continued their slow, lazy grind against each other. 

 

“Please, god,” Sherlock whispered, trying to keep his voice down so as not to awaken his landlady. “We,  _ nnnnngh _ , we should take this-” a keen was torn from his throat as John began sucking his way down his neck, “- _ up _ stairs! Before, before-”

 

“Yes, yes,” John agreed. “Sorry, I just-”

 

“No, no, don’t, just,” Sherlock stuttered out, sliding from between John and the wall and heading for the stairs. “Just, follow me. Not far, now.”

 

They quickly made their way up the stairs and the moment they were inside Sherlock’s flat, their jackets hit the floor, shoes were kicked off, and their hands were back on each other in a frenzied embrace. John’s arms wound tightly around Sherlock’s waist, hauling him firmly against him. Sherlock’s arms snaked around John’s shoulders, clutching the muscles he found back there, making him weak in the knees. 

 

When Sherlock’s knees began to buckle, John said, “whoa, steady. I got you,” before securing his hands under Sherlock’s thighs. A small tug and Sherlock got the message to let John lift him, his legs wrapping around John’s waist in an instant. John pinned him against the wall and kissed him hard, nipping at his lips. 

 

“Bedroom?,” John asked between kisses. 

 

Sherlock’s arm flailed in the direction of his room and said, “through that door.”

 

With a small growl of effort, John carried Sherlock towards the door and, helpfully, Sherlock reached behind himself to turn the knob and let them in. 

 

Next thing he knew, Sherlock was flat on his back with John stretched out on top of him. The weight of him felt divine, the friction of their rutting against each other as they kissed driving him mad. He arched his back and whined, wanting more than ever to be naked.

 

He broke the kiss and tugged at John’s shirt. “This, off!”

 

John chuckled, “bossy.”

 

“Damn right,” Sherlock said, sitting up to divest himself of his own shirt while John took his off. At the sight of a shirtless John Watson, Sherlock’s mouth watered. His hands traveled up the planes of his well muscled torso, thumbs grazing over his nipples before coming up to his clavicle then back down towards John’s fly. John’s hands came down to encircle his wrists. In confusion, Sherlock looked up and John answered his unspoken question with a kiss. Melting under him, he let John remove his hands from his trousers and allowed himself to be pushed back into the mattress. 

 

John raised Sherlock’s hands and placed them above his head and told him, “keep those right there.” Slowly, he dragged himself so he was kneeling on the bed between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock, drinking him in, could feel his heartbeat in his cock. John, making sure that Sherlock was watching him, slowly undid his fly, the sound of his zip obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room. Then he slowly slid the palm of his hand over his prominent erection, sliding deep into his own jeans. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, groaning decadently with the movement. 

 

“Tease,” Sherlock accused through grit teeth. 

 

John’s eyes opened, half lidded, and he smiled a lazy grin. “Damn right.” 

 

He rubbed his palm over his cock a few more times before sliding both hands into his pants. Slowly, seductively, he pushed his jeans down and taking his pants with them. A small undulation of his hips freed his cock and let his pants slide down to his thighs. Sherlock bit his lip to hold a whine of want back. 

 

John’s cock was magnificent. 

 

Modest length but  _ thick _ . Glistening at the head. 

 

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. 

 

He sat up, bracing his hands on John’s hips as he kneeled over him. He inhaled deeply the thick, musky scent of John. His mouth watered with the desire to taste. Tongue heavy in his mouth, he asked, “John, may I?”

 

“By all means,” John replied. 

 

With permission, Sherlock lightly dragged his tongue across John’s slit. John’s hand in his hair and the hiss of pleasure that came after that encouraged Sherlock. The salty, bitter tang on his tongue drove him on. He guided one hand to steady John’s cock at the base while he ran his tongue from root to tip, feeling the ridges and tasting his salt. Tongue at the summit once more, Sherlock wrapped his lips around the tip and sucked. Softly at first and easing John into the sensation before sliding further down his shaft. His tongue drew lazy swaths across him as he slowly fed John’s cock into his mouth. His mouth stretched wide to accommodate, his throat relaxing in order to get as much inside as possible. When he bottomed out he hummed low, making John curse above him. 

 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John panted.

 

Sherlock hummed in agreement and began sliding upwards. Establishing a slightly faster rhythm of up and down, Sherlock replaced his hands on John’s hips and gripped him tightly, encouraging John to rock with the movements. John complied enthusiastically, fucking into Sherlock’s mouth. Never too hard or too fast, Sherlock noticed.  _ Considerate lover, doesn’t want to hurt or choke me. So polite. _

 

Eventually, it grew too much. John gripped Sherlock’s hair and pulled out of his mouth. “Stop, stop! Too close,” he said hoarsely. He gulped down some steadying breaths before looking down at Sherlock. Quickly, his hand came down to grip himself at the base of his cock, hissing at the touch. “God, you’re a sight. Could come just looking at you.”

 

Sherlock knew what he must look like; mouth red and shiny with use, hair a riot from John’s hands in it, eyes watery and pupils blown wide with arousal. Suddenly, his own neglected erection twitched in his tight leather pants and he groaned with need. 

 

“John,” he growled.

 

John looked down, seeing Sherlock still trapped in his trousers. He began undoing Sherlock’s fly and said, “let’s get you out of these, yeah?”

 

Sherlock nodded and lifted his hips helpfully so John could pull them off. He stepped off the bed, dragging Sherlock’s trousers and pants off his legs as he went before bending to shove his clothes the rest of the way off. They stood there, staring at each other hungrily for a few seconds. John’s eyes raked over every naked inch of him, focusing on Sherlock’s cock. Not as thick as John’s but longer and slightly curved and flushed with blood. 

John dropped to his knees and said, “your turn,” before making a meal of him. He dragged Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders, gripped him under his arse, and swallowed him to the root.

 

Sherlock gasped, his thighs clenching around John’s head and spine suddenly turning to jelly. He flopped onto the mattress gracelessly, one hand in John’s hair the other in his own, he desperately tried not to thrust rudely into John’s mouth. And it felt so. Damn. Good. Warm and slick and his tongue was driving him mad as it dipped into his slit and flicked at his frenulum. Sherlock keened out at the onslaught, his orgasm only moments away. 

 

Trying to warn him, Sherlock cried out, “John! John, I’m...I’m going-”

 

The swift removal of John’s mouth from his cock had him nearly sobbing in disappointment. Head fuzzy, he looked up to ask just what was the problem when he was met with John leaning over him, kissing him into the mattress. Hardly one to complain when he mouth was thus occupied, he let his complaint slip as he tasted himself on John’s tongue, their combined flavors intoxicating.

 

At length, John pulled back and looked Sherlock in the eye. “Do you have a condom?”

 

Sherlock nodded and gestured to the drawer of his nightstand. John let him up and he found the requested condom. He also spied something else. He cleared his throat and said, “uhm, if you’d like I also have this.” He held up a small bottle of lubricant, feeling himself blush hard at his own question. 

 

John grinned and kissed him and he said, “what would you like, Sherlock?”

 

“To fuck you,” Sherlock said automatically. “Or be fucked by you. Either. Both. Not picky.”

 

Chuckling, John climbed onto the bed and they situated themselves at the head of the bed. John turned the bottle over in his hands for a moment before replying. “It has been an age since I’ve had a good shag. Don’t get many opportunities in the desert.”

 

“Is that right?”

 

“Mhmm.” He leaned over and kissed Sherlock deeply and said, “I would love your long, hot cock inside me.” 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed in response. They quickly arranged themselves so that John was on his back and Sherlock was kneeling between John’s legs. The  _ snick _ of the cap on the lube barely registered over the humming of blood in Sherlock’s ears. He coated his fingers generously, maintaining eye contact with John. Then, encouraging John’s hips to tilt upwards, he slipped his slick fingers into John’s crack. John winced at the brief flush of cold but sighed when Sherlock’s fingers began to circle his hole. When John’s body began to relax under him Sherlock breached him. 

 

John sucked in a quick breath and Sherlock stilled after sliding in up to the first knuckle. John was  _ tight _ . He was not lying when he had said it had been a minute since he’d last done this. “You alright,” Sherlock asked softly. 

 

John nodded. “Just getting used to it again. Keep going.”

 

Acquiescing, Sherlock slid his finger in all the way. When John had relaxed he started a smooth in and out rhythm, feeling John’s muscles loosen around him. In no time, he added a second finger and began to gently scissor him open. John’s brow soon became dotted in sweat from the exertion and Sherlock wanted to lick it off him. Instead, he kissed John’s neck and searched for John’s prostate. When he found it, John bucked up, cursing loudly with its discovery. 

 

“Fuck! Yes!”

 

Sherlock chuckled, “is that the spot, then?”

 

John growled, “you know it is, don’t tease.”

 

“Oh? This,” he probed John’s prostate once more, earning him another moaned curse, “is teasing?”

 

Johns arms came around to hold him, fingernails digging into his back. “God, fuck me, please!”

 

“Oh, I will,” Sherlock promised, adding a third finger. John’s hips moved up to buck into his fingers, desperate for more motion. 

 

“Now, I’m ready,” John plead. 

 

Another brush against his prostate earned him another whine and Sherlock decided he’d had enough teasing them both. He gently pulled his fingers free and reached for the condom. After slicking his sheathed cock he lifted John’s right leg over his shoulder, tilting his arse up for Sherlock’s perusal. The sight of him wet and open and ready was nearly too much. He took a deep breath and guided himself slowly inside. 

 

When Sherlock’s head breached him they both groaned. 

 

“God,” Sherlock gasped.

 

“Fuck,” John choked out. 

 

“Can I,” Sherlock asked, wanting to thrust in further.

 

“Yeah,” John replied. 

 

Achingly slowly, Sherlock buried himself to the hilt and then he gave them both a chance to breathe. 

 

“You alright,” Sherlock asked, searching John’s face for any trace of pain. 

 

John’s eyes were closed, adjusting to the intrusion in his body. He nodded and said, “yeah...just...so full.” Sherlock could sympathize. John was  _ so damn tight! _ He felt exquisite. So warm and welcoming. Gradually, he felt John relax and after what felt like an eternity, John finally said, “move, please move!”

 

Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled out to the tip only to slide all the way back in. With every thrust he picked up the pace, driving them both on until they were grinding up into each other. John’s fingers dug into his shoulders and back, undoubtedly leaving marks behind. Sherlock curled one arm under John’s back to grip him while the other held his leg up and over his shoulder, effectively locking him close so as not to escape his onslaught of pleasure. Not that John looked keen to escape. He had thrown his head back, moans freely falling from his mouth every time Sherlock thrust home or brushed over his prostate. 

 

Sherlock licked up John’s neck to his ear and asked, “can you come like this?”

 

John shook his head, “no, no. Need, nngh, need to touch my cock.”

 

“Oh, I will. Don’t worry.” He moved his hand to wrap around John’s cock and the effect was immediate. John clenched around him and his back arched, chasing an orgasm that was ever so close. He seemed desperate for release, panting and groaning, hands twisted in the sheets in an attempt to hold on. Sherlock dropped John’s leg and positioned him so that his arse was effectively in Sherlock’s lap, John’s feet planted on the bed at his sides. Then, determined to wring every last ounce of pleasure from John, he began thrusting into him while stroking him and coaxing him to orgasm. 

 

“Come on, John,” he said. “Come for me, I want to feel you clench down on me, want to feel it when you come.”

 

“Fuck, god, yes!” John cried out, fucking between Sherlock’s hand and cock until with a final cry, his body went taut and began to spurt over Sherlock’s hand. His hips stuttered as Sherlock milked every drop from him before melted back into the mattress. 

 

Seeing John so blissed out made Sherlock desperate for his own release. He went to pull out but John’s legs wrapped around him, forcing him to remain inside. “Fuck me,” John insisted. 

“Aren’t you-”

 

“Sensitive?” John shook his head. “Not yet, come on,” he said, pumping his hips to get Sherlock to move. “I want you to come.”

 

“Fffuuuck,” Sherlock growled before thrusting into John’s body in earnest. It didn’t take long before he finally fell over the precipice he’d been held over for what felt like hours. He bit down on John’s shoulder as he came, pumping into him until he began to tingle with overstimulation. Gently, he pulled out, gripping the base of the condom as he did so it didn’t slip. Tying off the end and dropping it into the bin next to his bed, he finally let his back hit the mattress. 

 

Then, they both began to giggle. 

 

They turned face one another, wrapping arms around each other. In between breathless giggles they kissed and cuddled close. When their mutual shivering got to be too much to bear, Sherlock reached down to drag the duvet that had found its way to the foot of the bed over them.

 

“So, you’re staying the night?”

 

“If I’m invited,” John replied. 

 

“Would be terribly rude of me to toss a soldier out on his ear. Especially after his spectacular service this evening.”

 

John laughed and slapped his shoulder. “Berk.”

 

Sherlock nuzzled into John’s neck. “And?”

 

John, still laughing, shook his head and said, “nothing.” He kissed Sherlock’s head and added, “absolutely nothing.”

 

They slept tangled in each other until the morning sun forced them to wake. Sherlock woke first, wincing in the sunlight. He groaned and rolled over only to have an arm curl around his middle, trapping him in bed. Sherlock smiled at the previous night’s memory and snuggled down into the mattress. 

 

“You’re awake,” Sherlock said in lieu of a “good morning”. 

 

“I am,” John replied.

 

“I believe I promised coffee.”

 

John’s nose trailed along the back of his neck, followed by light kisses. “I believe there was some mention of coffee.” 

 

Sherlock turned his head in order to plant a brief kiss to John’s lips. “Be ready in a few minutes.” He crawled out of bed and grabbed a dressing gown from the back of the door. He gestured to the glass door next to the bed, “loo’s through there. If you need it.”

 

John stretched in bed, “ta.”

 

In the span of ten minutes, two bladders had been emptied and two mugs had been filled with coffee. In the light of day, sitting at his table sipping coffee, with him in a dressing gown and John fully dressed like he hadn’t just brought him home for a shag, Sherlock felt slightly off. Nevermind that the night before had been spectacular, that he hadn’t enjoyed a one-off with someone nearly that much ever. Nevermind that waking up in John Watson’s arms just felt  _ right _ . 

 

They had agreed. One night only. Sherlock had a music career to pursue and John was getting shipped back out to Afghanistan. They would never see each other again. Refusing to examine his feelings of sadness for that, he relocated them to a back room in his mind palace and just drank his coffee. 

 

It was quiet. Too quiet. 

 

John seemed to sense Sherlock’s unease with small talk and so saved him from having to make it. “If you’re weirded about what to say, don’t be.”

 

Sherlock averted his eyes. “Who says I’m weirded out?”

 

John smiled a soft smile at him. “No one. Just saying.” He drained his mug and placed it on the table with an air of finality. “Last night was wonderful. Both the sex and sleeping in an honest to god bed. Missed that more than sex, to be honest.”

 

Sherlock snorted at that and that got John laughing. “Well, you’re welcome.” 

 

And just like that, the tension had eased. 

 

Sherlock finished his coffee and said, “I’ll walk you out. No doubt your mates are concerned with where you disappeared to.”

 

“Nah,” John said with a grin. “But you’re right. Time to get things in order. Tomorrow morning I’ll be on a plane back to Afghanistan.”

 

Sherlock nodded, accepting the knowledge. Sherlock had only intended to walk him to his door but he found himself walking down all seventeen steps to the front door. He looked at John, unsure of why he felt like he was losing something special. But, rather than dwell, he kissed him softly and said, “be safe out there, John Watson.”

 

John kissed him back, “and you, too, Sherlock Holmes.” Without further fanfare, John walked out the door and into the bustle of London. Sherlock watched him go on his way towards the tube and, when he couldn’t see him anymore, he resolved to put John Watson away for good. 


	2. Only Just a Call Away

Three months after  _ Elementary _ opened for  _ The Struts _ Sherlock received a call from his brother. 

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said into the receiver, “to what do I owe the displeasure?”

 

_ “Is that any way to talk to your manager,”  _ Mycroft replied.

 

“Does your call have to do with band business,” Sherlock asked, picking at his nails, pacing around his sitting room. 

 

_ “It might be.” _

 

“Out with it, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft sighed, “ _ such impatience.” _

 

“I’m hanging up now-”

 

“ _ Quit being a brat, Sherlock, and listen. I have some exciting news for you and your...friends.” _

 

“And what might that be?”

 

_ “How do you feel about doing your part to support the troops?” _

 

Sherlock had a momentary flashback to John and the way he looked naked in his bed.  _ Supporting the troops, indeed. _ Then he had a brief vision of volunteering for some kind of food or clothing drive and scrunched his nose up in distaste. He had never been fond of crowds where most of the people exuded fake charitable enthusiasm. 

 

“If you’re asking for us to help out with some kind of drive then you can think again.” He spun on his heel, dressing gown swirling for dramatic effect, to the benefit of no one but himself. “Not my kind of thing.”

 

_ “It is not a drive, it is a concert.” _

 

_ That _ got Sherlock’s attention. His eyebrow crooked in interest. “Oh?”

 

_ “I’ve just heard word of a variety show heading for Afghanistan in two weeks. Comedians, musicians, that sort of thing. They’re going for a few days to give the troops a much needed boost of morale, apparently.” _

 

“Really?,” he asked, thoroughly intrigued. He walked to the window, free hand tapping his lips in thought. “And they asked for us?”

 

_ “No.”  _ Sherlock’s huff of impudence ignored by Mycroft as he explained. “ _ I happen to have some contacts-” _

 

“From your big, bad, government day job I’m not supposed to know anything about?”

 

Mycroft’s pained sigh made Sherlock grin widely.  _ “For the last time, it’s not like it’s a secret that I hold a  _ minor _ position in Her Majesty’s-” _

 

“Save it for our parents’ boring friends at the Christmas parties. So, you heard about this show happening for the troops. And you, as our manager, thought to include us?”

 

_ “Precisely.” _

 

Sherlock’s mind flooded with thoughts all at once.  _ War zone, finally some fun!, Molly’s going to be terrified, great exposure for the band, a little much needed adventure, I wonder if John will be there- _

 

A record scratch sounded in his mind as John came bouncing into it once again. He shook his head, trying to free the thought of the army doctor with whom he’d spent one  _ very _ good night with. It wouldn’t matter in the slightest if he was there or not. John Watson did not rule over his motivations. 

 

He had actively tried to forget John ever since he left but the man’s image lingered stubbornly in the corners of his mind. He tried to focused hard on the band, looking for gigs and improving his singing and dance routines. He tried drowning him out with drinking and clubbing at least three times a week when they weren’t performing. He even tried fucking him out of his system but after the first man he had brought home couldn’t do that, he abandoned that road entirely. The man, who looked, sounded, and even smelled  _ nothing _ like John failed to remove the soldier from his mind. The only thing left untried came in a little solution and delivered via syringe and the idea of going back to rehab was more unpleasant than pining after John.

 

So, instead of ruining his body and quieting his mind with drugs, he wrote a couple songs of a more lewd yet sappy nature. They drove Irene and Greg crazy. 

 

_ “Sherlock,”  _ Mycroft called out, impatiently.

 

Sherlock cleared his voice and replied immediately, “sorry, just lost in thought. I am, of course, interested but I need to speak with the band. I’ll call a meeting, get back to you later today. Goodbye, Mycroft.” He hung up before his brother could reply, feet already taking him back to his bedroom so he could change, fingers tapping out a message to their group chat. 

 

**Sherlock:** Emergency meeting. Speedy’s, twenty minutes. 

 

**Greg:** Emergency? What’s up, mate?

 

**Sherlock:** Band thing. Best said in peron. 

 

**Molly:** I’m almost done with class, but I need thirty minutes to get there. 

 

**Irene:** How was your test, babe?

 

**Sherlock:** Please put your courting on hold!

 

**Sherlock:** Band business is afoot!

 

**Greg:** Oy!

 

**Irene:** Oy!

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, tapping out his apology. 

 

**Sherlock:** Apologies.

 

**Sherlock:** How did your test go, Molly.

 

**Molly:** You really want to know?

 

Fully dressed, Sherlock flung himself into his arm chair. He didn’t want to have time for this small talk but apparently he did. His fingers flew over the screen. 

 

**Sherlock:** Yes. 

 

**Molly:** It went well. Irene’s flashcards helped quite a bit. 

 

**Irene:** Glad to hear it, love [kiss emoji]

 

**Greg:** Aw

 

**Sherlock:** And on that note, I’ll be in Speedy’s. 

 

Thirty two minutes later, Molly joined the rest of the band, hurriedly sliding into her chair. “Sorry I’m late,” she panted, giving her girlfriend a kiss hello.

 

“You’re fine, doll,” Irene assured her, pushing a caramel latte into her hand. “We knew you’d be the last to arrive.”

 

“And now that you’re here,” Greg said, “Sherlock can finally tell us what this little meeting’s about.”

 

The band all turned their eyes to Sherlock, ready for his announcement. 

 

“Mycroft has a gig for us.”

 

“Really?!” Molly squealed, excitedly grabbing Irene’s hand. 

  
“What’s the gig? Another opener?” Irene asked.

 

Sherlock shook his head, taking a sip of his very sweet coffee. “Nope, bigger than that.”

 

Greg groaned in anticipation. “Come on now, spill it!”

 

“It’s a Support the Troops concert.” His bandmates all chattered over each other in excitement, asking for details and Sherlock had to raise his voice to just be heard. “In Afghanistan!”

 

Immediately, the table fell silent. 

 

They all blinked at him, the news settling over them. He could read their thoughts in their faces. Greg was game, ready for new scenery. Irene was cautiously excited, she wanted more information. Molly was scared at the thought of going to an active war zone but wanted to go regardless, wanting the band to succeed. 

 

Irene spoke first. “Do you know where in Afghanistan we’d be going?”

 

“Not as of yet,” Sherlock answered. “Mycroft just offered it. He wanted to gauge our interest.”

 

“What’s it matter where we’re going,” Greg said. “Sounds like fun.”

 

Molly asked, “would we be safe?”

 

“I assume so. We’d be at a military base with armed soldiers all around us.”

 

“In an active war zone,” Irene reminded. “Exposure won’t do us much good if we’re dead.”

 

“The risk for us would be minimal. They wouldn’t be sending us out where they couldn’t cover us.”

 

Greg, completely committed to the idea of going, asked, “do we know who else is going?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I can ask, though.” 

 

“How long would we be gone,” Molly asked, gathering her courage. 

 

“Couple of days, I’d imagine.”

 

After a hundred more questions and one phone call to Mycroft to discuss the particulars, the band finally came to a single conclusion. 

 

“I think we’re in, Mycroft,” Sherlock said proudly. 

 

_ “Fantastic. I’ll sort out the arrangements. Clear your schedules, pack your bags, and get your jabs. You’re all going to Afghanistan.” _

 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

A head popped into John’s office, distracting him from his charting. “Going to the concert tonight, Captain?”

 

John’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “There’s a concert tonight?”

 

“Oh yeah,” the young private confirmed. “There’s a few bands playing tonight. Tomorrow is a bunch of comedians. Some troop morale thing they’re doing. Are you coming?”

 

John’s brain helpfully supplied him with buried images of posters on the message boards and an unopened email in his inbox telling him as much. He had just assumed he’d be too busy to attend, just like the last couple events their base had held. He mentally checked his schedule and, for once, couldn’t think of a single thing he was doing. 

 

“You know, I think I will.” John began cleaning up his desk, shoving papers into folders. “Any idea who’s coming to play for us?” He grinned cheekily and asked sarcastically, “think they could get Beyonce out here?”

 

The private laughed and shook his head. “Unfortunately not. But I hear there’s going to be a Beatles tribute band.”

 

“Always a good choice,” John said, slipping his charts into their filing drawers. 

 

“There’s a couple American Bands, one pop and one rock, from what I hear.”

 

“I see, anyone from back home?”

 

“Aside from the Beatles band, there’s a band called  _ Elementary _ and…”

 

John’s spine straightened, all other noise faded to static. He was frozen. 

 

Elementary  _ is coming?! Sherlock is going to be here?!  _  John’s mind flooded with unasked for images of Sherlock’s lips around his cock, his body dancing on stage, his nervous lip-biting over coffee, his weight in his arms in the morning. 

 

Despite his best efforts, John had thought about Sherlock his whole flight back home. And the whole next day. And every free moment since. It got to the point that he was flinging himself head first into work to avoid thinking about a man back home who was most certainly  _ not _ waiting for him. And yet, the moment his head hit his pillow at the end of every day, he pictured Sherlock’s head laying next to him, laughing breathlessly into the sheets.

 

John cleared his throat and told the private that he’d be there, effectively dismissing him. He rubbed the image from his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. On the one hand, he could go back to his room and avoid any awkward run ins. On the other, he could go and listen to some good music with his men and get a glimpse of the man who currently dominated his nighttime fantasies. 

 

_ But what if he sees me? _ His brain asked unhelpfully. 

 

_ But what if he  _ wants _ to see you _ ? His brain added, just as unhelpfully. 

 

John spent the hours between the end of his shift and the concert mulling over whether or not he’d even attend. But, really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise when the temptation to see Sherlock again, even from afar, was too great. Dressed in his fatigues, he shouldered his way near the front of the crowded stage. A couple fellow officers found him in the crowd and drew him into conversation while they waited. They all lamented about the lack of beer at a concert but, as one pointed out, can’t have everything you want, right? When the concert started, he cheered right along with them. 

 

First up was a rock band from back home that did a mix of originals and covers. He particularly enjoyed the mashup of Bowie songs. The private who worked under him nudged him and joked about it because both he and Bowie were oldies but goodies and John joked back that he’d have him court martialed if he didn’t watch himself. Next up was a pop band that he wasn’t especially excited for. Still, he listened attentively and nodded along. By the fourth band he was growing antsy with the desire to see Sherlock. He asked his comrades if they knew when  _ Elementary  _ would be on and tried to hide his irritation when they admitted they didn’t know. 

 

But finally,  _ finally _ , Sherlock walked on stage and his heart flew into his throat. Sherlock scanned the crowd, introducing the band and himself, grinning wildly. Then, as he scanned the front of the crowd, his eyes caught John’s. John watched him lick his lips, recognition plain on his face. And, just like that, hope began to flare in his chest. 

 

Without further ado, Sherlock started the show. 

 

Their set started with the first song John had heard them sing, “She Makes Me Feel Like”. But instead of “Dirty, Sexy Money” they rolled into a cover of “Ballroom Blitz”. 

 

Molly’s quick drum beat churned out the familiar tune, much to the delight of the crowd. Hands began to clap and feet began to stomp, and John couldn’t hold back his smile. Sherlock gripped the mic firmly and, turning to Greg, said with a smirk, “are you read Greg?”

 

“Yeah,” Greg answered. 

 

He turned to Irene and asked, “Irene?”

 

“You bet,” Irene replied.

 

Turning his head to meet Molly’s grin, he added, “Molly?”

 

“Okay!”

  
“Well alright fellas, let's go!” He began clapping his hands along with the crowd to keep the energy pumping.

_   
_ _ “Oh it's been getting so hard _ _   
_ __ Living with the things you do to me”

 

_ If only you knew, _ John thought wryly.

_   
_ _ “My dreams are getting so strange _ _   
_ __ I'd like to tell you everything I see

 

Then Sherlock grabbed the stand, leaning down over the stage to sing directly to the people in the front row. He pointed off in the distance and sang; __   
  


_ “Oh, I see a man at the back as a matter of fact _ _   
_ _ His eyes are as red as the sun _ _   
_ _ And the girl in the corner let no one ignore her _ _   
_ _ Cause she thinks she's the passionate one _ _   
_ __ Oh yeah!”

 

John, along with the whole audience belted out the chorus right along with Sherlock. A wave of nostalgia, not only for his misspent youth but also for his one night with Sherlock, enveloped him. He watched as Sherlock returned to addressing the front rows as the next verse began.

 

_ “Oh reaching out for something _ _   
_ _ Touching nothing's all I ever do” _

 

He reached John’s side of the stage and crooked a finger out directly to him, an eyebrow suggestively raised. 

_   
_ _ “Oh I softly call you over _ _   
_ __ When you appear there's nothing left of you”

 

John held Sherlock’s gaze even as a shiver creeped down his spine at the implication.  _ He’s been thinking of me, too, _ he thought hopefully.  _ Or, I’m just a poor, horny bastard and have no business thinking about him that way, _ he added. 

 

The song ended and then, after a brief pause for Sherlock to guzzle down a gulp of water (and if John couldn’t help but stare at his shiny, wet lips, could you blame the man?), they began another original of theirs. The chorus, John was sure, was meant to drive him mad. 

“ _ I bet your body's so sweet,” _

The band echoed after each lyric, “ _ oh yeah.” _

_ “So roll your dice with my feet  _ _   
_ _ Well when and where our eyes meet  _ _   
_ _ You've got that hand I can't beat  _ _   
_ _ So put your money on me _ _   
_ _ Put your money on me _ _   
_ _ So put your money on me _ _   
_ __ Put your money on me”

Near the end, Sherlock caught his eye, winked and sang in his direction, “ _ I wanna do it, I wanna do it now!” _

_ You ain’t the only one, _ John thought, gritting his teeth and subtly adjusting himself. They played two more songs, none of them blatantly directed at him, and John watched on hungrily. When they finished their final song, Sherlock bowed, head dripping in sweat from the lights and the heat of the stage. He thanked their crowd, waving and looking out at the sea of soldiers, his eyes finally landing on John. He held John’s gaze until he disappeared offstage and once it was gone John felt bereft. He should have known that coming to see him wouldn’t have done more than barely scratch the itch he felt for Sherlock. Now, after having seen him so close and yet so far, he practically ached to talk to the man again. 

And, come hell or high water, Captain John Watson would be sure to pay his respects to the band before they, more importantly  _ Sherlock, _ left him once more. 

 

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Sherlock practically vibrated out of his skin with energy. Not just from the fantastic show they had just performed. But because  _ he _ was there! 

 

Once they were safely ensconced behind stage, Irene came up to interrogate him. 

 

“Did I see who I think I just saw,” she asked, grin plastered on her face. 

 

“Who what now?” Greg asked, confused.

 

“Are you dense?” Irene asked as she cornered Sherlock while he toweled the sweat off his face and neck. She gestured in the general direction of the audience they had just entertained. “If you’d been paying attention to more than your fretboard, you’d have seen Sherlock totally eyebanging one of the soldiers!”

 

“Ooh, goody!” Molly came up to wrap her arm around Irene’s waist. “Sherlock’s got a boyfriend,” she giggled, much to Sherlock’s displeasure. 

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” he stated firmly. He carefully himself down into one of the folding chairs provided for the performers backstage. “We only did it the one time.”

 

“Dirty bird,” Irene teased. She didn’t even flinch at the sharp look he threw in her direction. “Is he why you were so eager to come?”

 

Sherlock gesture flippantly with his wrist and scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want to advance our career just as much as the rest of you.”

 

Greg nudged his shoulder with his arm. “Yes, but not all of us had a one night stand with a soldier whom you just happened to have followed back to a war zone for.”

 

Sherlock groaned loudly and covered his face with his hands. “I did  _ not _ come here for John Watson!”

 

“Ah, and we’ve named the puppy,” Irene said, settling into her own folding chair. 

 

“Of course he has a name,” Molly said. She turned a sympathetic look on him and asked, “did you know he’d be here?”

 

Sherlock sighed and said, “I knew he was stationed in Afghanistan. I did not know he was stationed here exactly.”

 

“Convenient twist of fate, if you ask me,” Greg chipped in.

 

“Well, I didn’t,” Sherlock replied in a huff.

 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Irene told him, entirely too amused with how easily it was to ruffle him over the subject of John. 

 

Sherlock scrunched down as far as he could into the chair without falling out of it, determined to sulk. He hadn’t thought he was that he was so obvious with his pining but apparently he was.  _ Guess it was too much to hope for after sharing that damn song, _ Sherlock lamented. If he were being honest to himself, he would admit that he had hoped to see John at the concert. He had hoped that fate would bring them back together because, try as he might, he couldn’t delete him from his brain. And, if he were going to continue being honest, he had hoped to find a moment, several moments in fact, where he could approach the man. And, if he were being really honest and really silly, hoped that they could find a private spot where they could pick up where they left off. 

 

But he was sure that all of that would be impossible. It’s not as if John was back in London, free to come and go as he wished. Technically, Sherlock was the man’s place of work. He was on John’s turf and that turf happened to belong to Her Majesty’s Army. Even though he thought he saw want and interest in John’s eyes when they met from across the crowd, who knows if John was even wanting to revisit their little tryst from almost four months prior. He felt pathetic for even hoping. 

 

He let loose a truly pitiful sigh and said, “I need some air.”

 

“Cigarette, more like,” Greg teased. “Thought you were quitting.”

 

“Yell at me later when we don’t have the possibility of being shot at.” He walked over to where they had dropped their gear and fished out his cigarettes. Then he snatched up Irene’s guitar, despite her protest. 

 

“Hey now wait just a minute, that is mine!” she complained, trying to take it back.

 

“I’ll give it back,” he promised. “I need to think.” 

 

“Don’t go too far,” Molly warned him. “Remember what our body guards said, most of this area is off limits to us.”

 

“That’s not exactly selling the idea of “staying close” to me,” Sherlock told her. Nevertheless, he walked out of the tent that served as their backstage and stalked out towards one of the buildings that had been cleared safe for them to use. From what he had seen, it was a barracks that had a shower facility, kitchen, and a few rooms. It had been cleared out to house the talent that had come to entertain the troops and, as far as Sherlock knew, no one else was bunking there. 

 

The thought of being cooped up didn’t sit well with him so he decided to go around the outside of the building and find a good place to perch and smoke. A few minutes of walking and he found exactly what he had been looking for; a block of crates stacked up and perfect as a hideout. 

 

Sherlock clamoured atop one of them, pressing his back against one and letting his legs dangle off the side. He set guitar in his lap and lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply. He took a few drags, letting the nicotine course through him before sticking the butt in his mouth and strumming out a few chords. The song he had been writing for John came to mind and he started to play. 

 

At first, the words he had written stayed silent inside his head. He tried playing out a few chords to see how they worked with the words, how well they mashed up. He frowned, pursing his lips to suck in another lungful of smoke while his hands were occupied. He began thumping his boot against the crate in time with the guitar, nodding his head with positive energy. He could hear where it would swell faster and louder, where he’d add the backup vocals. He began humming along with the guitar, letting the song unfold itself around him. 

 

The song was dismissive and hopeful all at once. A statement of unavailability but a promise that more could be reached for if given the proper motivation.  _ Pathetic _ , he told himself.  _ Sweet, _ Molly’s voice counter-argued in the back of his mind. He finished the cigarette and tossed it away. Focused, he began whispering the first verse, a combination of what he imagined John had been thinking and what he knew he had been thinking. 

 

_ “All that you want _ _   
_ _ Is a love I can't provide _ _   
_ _ And no matter what I try _ _   
_ _ Feels like we’re falling _ _   
_ _ 'Cause I'm leaving home _ _   
_ _ One more talk and I'll be gone _ _   
_ __ And I'll be saving all these ashes 'till the morning

 

_ “When the sun comes from the west _ _   
_ _ That's where you'll find my silhouette  _ _   
_ _ I’ll ride a cloud, come back to you _ _   
_ __ Without a warning, warning-”

 

“Without a warning is very appropriate,” a half-familiar voice said, startling him. 

 

Sherlock’s head jerked up at the invasion of his solitude, ready to tell off whoever it was but his voice stuck in his throat. His mouth hung agape, refusing to believe his eyes. 

 

“J-John...where did you come from?”

 

John smiled, leaning his back against the brick of the building, arms crossed. “I could ask you the same thing. I, for one, am supposed to be here.” He waggled a finger at Sherlock and said, “you being here, however, is a complete surprise.”

 

Sherlock bit his lip and dropped his eyes to the guitar in his lap. “I suppose I am. Not like I could give any heads up.”

 

John hummed in agreement. “True.”

 

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John once more. “I hope I’m a pleasant surprise, at least.”

 

John turned his brilliant smile on him and turned to lean on his shoulder, facing Sherlock. “You could say that. It’s definitely not an unwelcome one.” He crept a little closer, within a handbreadth of Sherlock’s boots. “How’ve you been?”

 

Sherlock nodded and said, “well. Very well, in fact. Band is getting some recognition. Boredom isn’t killing me yet.”

 

John chuckled low. “That’s good to hear. Heaven forbid you get bored.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And you? How have you been?”

 

John shrugged. “About as well as I could be while out here fighting for Queen and country. Been busy, lots of work to be done.” He smiled softly, “never bored, that’s for sure.”

 

Their eyes caught and they stared at each other for a few silent minutes, neither of them daring to let slip what the other was thinking. Sherlock knew for sure that John had thoughts about something big jumbling around in his blond head but it was so hard to read them when all he could focus on was how blue his eyes looked in the dying light of the sun.  _ Had they been that blue last time? Of course they were, don’t be stupid and poetic. It’s pathetic, _ he scolded himself without looking away. 

 

At length, John stirred himself and asked, “what were you singing? Hadn’t heard that one before.”

 

Sherlock’s heart hammered in his chest. He gestured dismissively and said, “nothing much. Just a song I’ve been working on.”

 

“A new one?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Can’t very well get anywhere singing the same old songs, can we?”

 

“Suppose not.” John averted his eyes and rubbed the back of his head nervously. Then he looked up at Sherlock again and asked, “share with me?”

 

“Uhm...it’s...not exactly right yet.”

 

John straightened, clamming up. “I’m sorry if I imposed-”

 

Fearing John would leave him so soon, Sherlock put out a pleading hand, “not at all! Just...warning you it might not be very good is all.”

 

“Oh.” John relaxed back into the wall. 

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and began strumming on the guitar. Softly, almost shyly, he began to sing.   
  


 

_ “ _ _ All that you want _ _   
_ _ Is a love I can't provide _ _   
_ _ And no matter what I try _ _   
_ __ Feels like we’re falling”

 

He chanced a glance up at John to find him listening intently, focused entirely on him. He dropped his eyes back to the strings and sang on.   
  


_ “'Cause I'm leaving home _ _   
_ _ One more talk and I'll be gone _ _   
_ _ And I'll be saving all these ashes 'till the morning _ _   
_ _   
_ _ When the sun comes from the west _ _   
_ _ That's where you'll find my silhouette  _ _   
_ _ I’ll ride a cloud, come back to you _ _   
_ __ Without a warning, warning”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the music take over. He didn’t want to see John connect the dots, afraid that if he did he wouldn’t appreciate Sherlock’s pining. Afraid that if his interest was returned that they would be at a loss anyway, due to circumstance. 

 

_ “Don't speak 'cause it only makes my _ _   
_ _ Heart bleed no matter what you say _ _   
_ _ I'll be only just a call away, oh oh oh oh _ _   
_ _ I need to know that I've got you _ _   
_ _ With me no matter what they say _ _   
_ __ I'll be only just a call away, oh oh oh oh”

 

The pace of the guitar’s chords picked up, as did the cadence of Sherlock’s voice.

 

_ “Close your eyes in the night _ _   
_ _ I'll be right in front of you _ _   
_ _ So sit back enjoy the view until the morning _ _   
_ _ When the sun comes from the west _ _   
_ _ That's where you'll find my silhouette  _ _   
_ _ I’ll ride a cloud, come back to you _ _   
_ _ Without a warning, warning _ __   
  


_ Don't speak 'cause it only makes my _ _   
_ _ Heart bleed no matter what you say _ _   
_ _ I'll be only just a call away, oh oh oh oh _ __   
  


_ I need to know that I've got you _ _   
_ _ With me no matter what they say _ _   
_ _ I'll be only just a call away, oh oh oh oh _ __   
  


Sherlock opened his eyes to find John looking on him in adoration. He took a chance and sung his feelings to John, hoping that it wouldn’t end in rejection.    
  


_ “We'll take it one day at a time _ _   
_ _ So just sit back until you cry _ _   
_ _ I've come too far to let you down  _ _   
_ _ And baby don't you worry now _ __   
  


_ Don't speak 'cause it only makes my  _

_ Heart bleed no matter what you say _

_ I'll be only just a call away, oh oh oh oh _ __   
  


_ I need to know that I've got you _

_ With me no matter what they say _

_ I'll be only just a call away, oh oh oh oh _

 

A final strum of his fingers and the song ended, filling the space between them. When it, too, fell silent, they were left staring at each other. Sherlock could feel the tension rise and crackle between them. He desperately hoped John would understand the meaning behind the words. If he was interested, if he wanted him, Sherlock would be there. If not, then he would leave him be. He would remain a fond memory. 

 

He hoped harder than anything else he’d hoped for in his life that John understood. 

 

John licked his lips, eyes searching Sherlock’s, his mouth opening and closing desperately trying to say something. But he was at a loss, even Sherlock could see it. He felt disappointment rise in him and he sat back heavily, eyes closed. He would be the one to turn away, make it easier on a man who clearly was too nice to hurt him. 

 

“John, I...if I overstepped, I apolo- _ hmph!” _

 

It took a full three seconds to realize that John had closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. Once realization that he hadn’t been rejected uploaded into his brain, his body unfroze and he began to kiss John back. He sighed in relief, opening up beneath him, melting into the kiss he’d longed for for far too long. 

 

John cupped his cheeks in his hands, tilting his head for better access and Sherlock granted it to him. He scooted towards the edge of the crate, trying to press their bodies closer together. But he was sharply reminded of the guitar in his lap as it prevented them from doing so. He broke the kiss, whispering, “shit,” before gently putting the guitar on the ground to allow John to move closer. In a second, they were even closer than before, kissing and holding each other close. 

 

Sherlock knew that he was in trouble. He would never want to stop kissing him. 

 

Just as he acknowledged that fact, John pulled back, gasping for breath. “Fuck,” he whispered. He pressed their foreheads together, running his right hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

 

“Kiss that bad, huh,” Sherlock tried to joke, heart not really in it. 

 

John shook his head, forehead brushing Sherlock’s with every movement. “No, not bad at all. But,” he paused, licking his lips and tilting his head up to look at Sherlock. “But we can’t do this here. Christ, if I get caught here, with you.”

 

Sherlock, confused asked, “I thought the military allowed you to serve openly?”

 

“Huh?” John, just as confused, took a second to process the question. Then, his mouth opened in recognition. “Oh, no. No, no no no, that’s not it. I just can’t be caught fraternizing. It’s...not really allowed for us to get involved with civilians while deployed.”

 

“Oh.” Some of the stiffness from Sherlock’s previous concern faded. But then another question cropped up. “So...what now?”

 

“Now?” John paused, thinking. Then, he smiled and said, “you’re rooming in this building, yeah?” He jerked his thumb to the building next to them and Sherlock nodded. “What room?”

 

“Seven. Why?”

 

“Because, my night is clear. And, if you want,” John paused, a little unsure of how his next words would be received. “I’d very much like to pick up where we left off. Before. Back in London.” The thought of having a naked John Watson on him, in him,  _ near _ him, made his mouth water. He nodded his head rapidly, words to express just how much he wanted him drowning on his tongue. John grinned, kissed him once more, then pulled away entirely. “Good, go to your room. I’ll be right back.”

 

Sherlock bounded off the crate, concerned. “Where are you going?”

 

“Back to my room, to get one, very important necessity for tonight.”

 

Understanding dawned on Sherlock and he blushed deeply. “Oh...right. Yes. That. Yes.”

 

John’s smile only grew wider and he asked, smugly, “broke you already?”

 

Sherlock, finally, was able to compose himself enough to drop his voice into a sultry growl. He grabbed Irene’s guitar and closed the distance between them. “You haven’t seen broken yet, John Watson. And, if you don’t hurry,” he leaned in close to whisper in his ear, “I’ll start without you.” 

 

And, without another word, as calmly as he could, he walked back to his room. He prayed that his bandmates wouldn’t be there. The thought of shooing them out, “sexiling” them as Greg would put it, was embarrassing beyond belief. But, luckily, when he returned to their assigned room it was empty. He put Irene’s guitar on her bunk and took stock of his appearance in the small mirror in their room. A bit dusty from being outside, makeup smudged a little but nothing that needed touching up. He took a second to smell his breath and pits and deciding to err on the side of caution, swiped some deodorant on and chewed a mint from his carry-on bag. His body taken care of, he tried to calculate the best place to do...whatever it is they would do that night. Instead of four separate beds, they had been given two bunk beds. Just fine for sleeping, but annoying as all hell to have sex in. 

 

“God, it’s like being in uni again,” Sherlock complained to himself, going over his options.  He had just untied and toed off his boots when a hesitant knock came to his door. 

 

Full of giddy excitement, Sherlock opened the door and grabbed John by the collar of his shirt and hauled him inside. In an instant, he had John pressed against the door and at his mercy as he plundered the man’s mouth. John arms immediately came around him to grip at the muscles of Sherlock’s back, nails digging in through the shirt. When John’s hands slid southward to cup his arse, Sherlock gasped in pleasure. 

 

“I’ve had dreams about this arse,” John confessed, trailing hot, wet kisses down Sherlock’s neck. 

 

“God, I want you,” Sherlock confessed in turn. He rubbed his now throbbing erection against John’s hip, groaning in pleasure. John returned with a grind of his own, slipping a thigh firmly between Sherlock’s legs to tease them both. 

 

“You’ve had me,” John said, biting down on Sherlock’s collarbone. He soothed the bite with his tongue, making Sherlock purr in delight. “This time I want you.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock acquiesced breathlessly. “Yes, please.”

 

John peered over Sherlock’s shoulder and chuckled before burying his head in Sherlock’s neck. “Of course they’d give you bunk beds.” 

 

“Problem?”

 

John shook his head before grinning wolfishly up at him. “Not at all. Just going to have to get creative.” 

 

John put his hands on Sherlock’s hips and, with a sudden pivot, he had Sherlock pressed up against the door where he had just been. The sudden manhandling made Sherlock drunk with desire and he felt his knees wobble with it. He put his hands on John’s shoulders to steady himself. John kissed him then. Deeply, slowly. 

 

As they kissed John reached between them to undo Sherlock’s jeans. John’s hands on him had him shivering with need and he dug his nails into John’s shoulders to keep himself from crying out. He whimpered, biting back a moan and John shushed him. 

 

“I wish I could lay you out on your bed again, let every little moan and gasp fall free from that gorgeous mouth of yours,” John told him. He reached inside Sherlock’s pants to cup his hot, stiff member. Sherlock surged forward to bury his moan in a kiss. When John pulled back it was to tell him, “but unfortunately, we need to be a bit more discrete. Think you can keep quiet?”

 

Sherlock nodded rapidly. “Yes!”

 

“Good.” He kissed him lightly once. “I promise, next time we do this you can make as much noise as you’d like.”

 

Joy sang in Sherlock’s blood. “Next time?” 

 

“If you’re amenable.” One more kiss and then he said, “now, turn around for me.”

 

Sherlock complied and soon he felt John pulling down his jeans and pants to expose his arse to the air. He shivered, both with the coolness of the room and in anticipation. Then he felt John’s warm lips kissing the back of his neck and his body relax between John and the door. 

 

The soft click of a bottle, however, made him jolt. 

 

“Nervous?” John asked.

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Ready,” he assured. 

 

“Good,” John whispered to him. His palm slid down Sherlock’s back, rucking up his shirt to expose the skin beneath. Then, with a slight pressure of encouragement, John prompted Sherlock to bend at the waist so that his arse was sticking out. The momentary flush of embarrassment was replaced with white hot need when he felt John’s slick finger slipping between his cheeks. 

 

Sherlock gasped softly, pressing his cheek and palms hard against the door. He bit back a deeper moan as John’s finger circled his hole. Automatically, he spread his legs as wide as they would go while still trapped in his jeans. John worked him over slowly, carefully, waiting til he was fully relaxed before easily sliding his finger deep inside Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock bit down harder on his lip. He knew he wasn’t as tight as John had been thanks to his own masturbatory routine. But it still had been a long time since he’d had another person breach him. John’s finger was divine, a promise of more to come. 

 

“Look at how easy you open up for me,” John crooned. “You want me so badly, don’t you.”

 

“Yes,  _ god yes. _ ” 

 

“You’ll have me,” John promised. “Very soon.” 

 

One finger felt good. Two felt great. By the time John had managed a third, Sherlock was in heaven but needing more. He bit back needy moans and breathy gasps, wishing fruitlessly that they were somewhere more private. He wanted,  _ needed _ , John to know how much he wanted him. He was on the verge of telling him as much when John’s fingers disappeared. Sherlock held his position, wiggling his arse enticingly, hoping John enjoyed the view. The sound of John’s zip and the crinkle of foil, from a condom wrapper no doubt, only ratcheted up Sherlock’s desire. 

 

“God, this arse is gorgeous.” John’s hand returned to part Sherlock’s cheeks and exposing him to John’s view. It felt deliciously filthy. 

 

He didn’t have long to revel in that particular feeling because in a second, John’s head was probing at his entrance. Sherlock whispered, “yes,” before bending even deeper, encouraging John’s head to breach him further. 

 

He hadn’t forgotten John’s girth. He had often fantasized about it. But, as John slowly slid into him for the first time, Sherlock was sure he’d never forget it. John’s cock slipped in easily but slowly, his width speared him and it was all he could do to keep from crying out. It was too much, not enough, burning and glorious all at once. He felt dizzy with lust, knees weak with it. Then, impossibly, John was fully seated and Sherlock felt like he could breathe again. 

 

“ _ Jesus _ christ,” Sherlock panted, unaccustomed to the intrusion.

 

“You alright,” John asked, voice full of concern. 

 

“More than alright,” Sherlock assured. “Fuck, you’re big.”

 

John chuckled, shifting inside him with his mirth. “A bloke always likes to hear that.”

 

“Well,” Sherlock said, gulping in air, “in your case it’s true.” He took a few more steadying breaths before telling John it was okay to move. 

 

The slide was wonderful. John filling him over and over again in slow, rhythmic thrusts steadied him, allowed him to grow accustomed to John’s cock without losing himself entirely to the sensation all the while sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through his body. John was a  _ wonder  _ and he knew he’d never tire of him. 

 

When Sherlock began to push back, impatient for faster thrusts, John obliged happily. He pulled back slow but thrust inward swiftly, forcing groans from them both. Then, shifting his aim slightly, he managed to hit Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock slapped his hand over his mouth to cover his yell.

 

John stilled. “Shit, Sherlock, you okay?”

 

“Fine!” Sherlock replied quickly. “Do that again, fuck! Do that again!”

 

“With pleasure,” John said, thrusting inside again and hitting Sherlock’s prostate once more. This time, ready for it, Sherlock was able to swallow back his moan of pleasure. John’s thrusts came faster, hitting his prostate more often until Sherlock was practically sobbing, hand permanently pressed over his mouth to keep himself quiet. He bit into the meat of his palm as he felt his orgasm roll up on him.

 

He was so,  _ so _ close. He needed just a bit more to push him over the edge. He wished that John could bite him but their position and height difference made that impossible. Taking a second to log that away for future reference, he reached down to grab his cock. 

 

“You’re going to come?” John asked, hands gripping his hips harder.

 

“So close,” Sherlock confirmed. 

 

“Fuck, yes, do it. Come on, Sherlock,” he encouraged. John’s steady, powerful thrusts pushed him onward and soon Sherlock was screaming into his forearm and coming all over his hand. 

 

“Oh god,” John choked out, fucking Sherlock through his orgasm. “I can feel you coming, god that’s gorgeous,” he said, fucking harder and chasing his own orgasm. Moments later, John had plastered himself to Sherlock’s back, balls deep inside him as he came and came. He muffled his own cries between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, hot breath dampening his shirt. 

 

Coming down was too much for Sherlock to remain standing. He quivered and shook, struggling to stand. “John, I need to lay down before I fall down,” he warned. 

 

“Oh, right, course.” John gently pulled out and Sherlock straightened with a slight wince at the burn in his arse. Without any dignity, nor care at the lack of dignity, Sherlock stepped out of his jeans and walked the short distance to his bunk, sinking heavily into it. 

 

He opened his eyes, unsure of when he’d closed them, to see John standing next to him unsure of himself. He smiled up at him and scooted over to offer a little of the small bed. “Come down here this instant, John.”

 

John smiled, relief in his face, and settled down into the mattress. It was a tight fit, but they managed to maneuver themselves to that Sherlock was draped over most of John’s body with John’s arms enveloping him in a hug. Sherlock, comfortable and sleepy, couldn’t think of another place he’d rather be. Besides his own bed, of course. 

 

He nuzzled into John’s neck, smelling his scent there and leaving small post-coital, blissful kisses behind. John’s hands roamed up and down his back, making him feel more treasured than he ever had in his life, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why it was so with John and no one else. He promised to revisit the thought later, when he wasn’t enjoying the strength and warmth of John’s arms. 

 

Just as he’d resolved to file away feelings for another time, voices in the hall and the turn of the knob made them both cry out in surprise. 

 

“Fuck,” Sherlock said, scrambling to get his naked lower half under the blankets with all haste. John tried to get up but ended up hitting his head against the bunk above him and he sank back down into the mattress rubbing an impending goose egg. 

 

“Well, well, well,” Irene said, voice dripping in amusement.

 

“What have we got here,” Greg added, chuckling at the scene in front of him. 

 

“Oh, hello,” Molly said, entirely too cheery. “You must be John.”

 

Sherlock, boiling with embarrassment, tried to smother himself in his pillow. His voice, muffled by the pillow, shouted, “get out!”

 

“As if,” Irene said. “At least you didn’t scratch my guitar while you were out chasing loose soldiers.”

 

“Excuse you,” John said, slightly offended. 

 

Sherlock put a hand on his chest to keep him from fleeing the bed. He lifted the pillow and told him firmly, “she’s just trying to get a rise out of us. Don’t give her the satisfaction.” He gestured to his bandmates and introduced them. 

 

“These are my friends Irene, Molly, and Greg. My bandmates.”

 

Still rubbing what was sure to be a gnarly looking bump on his forehead John said, “charmed.”

 

Molly, taking pity on them both, said, “let’s go give them ten minutes. It’s only polite, it looks like we interrupted something.”

 

“Looks like we interrupted the end of something,” Irene said with a smirk. 

 

“Yes you did,” Sherlock confirmed. “Now, if you don’t mind, please bugger off for a few minutes so I can at least put some pants on.”

 

“Hmph, fine,” Irene said. “Come on, let’s see if we can track down a decent cuppa.”

 

“Cantine two buildings down,” John called after them.

 

“Thanks, John,” Greg replied just before closing the door.

 

They sat in awkward silence for a few moments before Sherlock deigned to speak. “So. That was…”

 

“Awkward.”

 

“Yup.”

 

They turned to face each other and John asked, “think we’ll laugh about that later?”

 

Sherlock smiled, “maybe.” Then giggles started to overtake them both and he amended to, “definitely.” 

 

John kissed him and Sherlock felt himself relax once more. After a minute or two of kissing John said, “I better make myself scarce. Your friends are going to be back soon and I need to be back in my room before I’m missed.”

 

Sherlock nodded, a little sad at the thought of not sleeping next to John that night. “Of course.” 

 

John rose and helped Sherlock stand. Sherlock fished his pants out of his jeans and slid them on. They stood, unsure of how to end the evening satisfactorily for them both. But then, Sherlock had an idea. He bent to retrieve his phone. 

 

“Type your number in.”  John was quick to comply and when he handed it back, Sherlock shot off a quick text to John’s phone. “Now, you can get a hold of me. Whenever you’d like a chat.”

 

John grinned. “I’d like that.” He reached up to cup Sherlock’s cheeks and pull him down into a tender kiss. When he broke it, he said, “I better go.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“When do you leave?”

 

“Tomorrow afternoon. When’s your next leave?”

 

“Next year.”

 

A pang of premature longing shot through Sherlock. A year. “That’s a long time.”

 

“It is,” John agreed. “Think we can make it?”

 

Sherlock didn’t like the idea of waiting that long to hold him in his arms again. But then he thought of the electricity between them, the feeling of belonging whenever John was with him, the little voice inside him telling him “don’t you dare let him go” and he knew that he could do it. He nodded and said, “I think so.” He kissed him again and lead him to the door. “Go, before I decide to smuggle you out of here in Molly’s drum kit.”

 

John laughed aloud and kissed him once more. “Don’t tempt me. Fly safe, yeah?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Be safe out here. Come home in one piece.”

 

They kissed slowly, savoring each and every taste and movement until it was too much to bear. They reluctantly broke their kiss and John left. Sherlock closed the door and, leaning heavily into it, felt a piece of his heart shut away behind the door. It was ridiculous, getting so attached so soon. He knew that. But he had no choice in the matter it seemed. So, instead of sulking, he went to his phone and looked at the message he had sent prior.

 

**To: John Watson**

This is Sherlock.

 

Then, he decided to send one more. Just so John would know he was still there and would be there until he was home once more.

 

**To: John Watson**

Remember, I’ll only just be a call away. 


	3. Hallelujah

John was afraid that Sherlock would end their long distance flirtation, he still hesitated to overstep and call what they had a relationship despite how he felt, but after two months of regular contact he was pleasantly surprised and relieved. Phone calls were rare, as were texts, due to the nature of John being endlessly busy and the base’s restrictive phone policies. But they emailed often and had an occasional Skype call and they both decided that it would have to be enough.  

 

Anxious and ready to end his day, John checked his watch and rushed to finish his paperwork so that he could make his “date” with Sherlock on time. He was late to the last one and did not relish being on the receiving end of one of Sherlock’s scowls. Sherlock understood, of course. Patients and cases often came in without warning and John couldn’t walk out on his duties just because he wanted to see him.  But that didn’t mean he liked waiting around and John could understood that, too. 

 

He somehow managed to finish right on time and make it back to his quarters with a couple minutes to spare. While his computer booted up he changed out of his dirty clothes for the day and into his pajamas. It was late and he planned on going right to bed after they spoke. Skype loaded without complaint or issue, for once surprisingly, and in no time he was ringing Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock answered right away and immediately John felt himself sag with the weight of fondness. 

 

The picture was a little fuzzy and laggy but there he was, looking out at him through the internet. “John? Can you hear me? Can you see me alright?”

 

John smiled and propped his head on his fist, staring into the computer. “I can. Hello, gorgeous.”

 

The image clipped a little but John could tell that Sherlock had dipped his head slightly, still unused to being called gorgeous by him. Or anyone, in general, as John had learned. Then the picture became a little clearer and John squinted, trying to be sure of what he saw. 

 

“Are...are you wearing a sheet?”

 

Sherlock smiled at him. “I am. It’s nearly two in the morning here. Can’t expect a man to be anything approaching decent at such an hour.”

 

Knowing exactly what lay beneath that sheet, so far from his physical reach, had John biting his lip in longing. “Augh, gonna make a bloke dye of blue balls, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock laughed. “You know as well as I,  _ Doctor, _ that there has yet to be a real case of death by “blue balls”. You’re more than capable of “self medicating”.” He used air quotes to emphasize his point and it made John giggle. 

 

“Doesn’t mean you’re not an incorrigible tease.”

 

Sherlock shrugged innocently. “Let’s just say it’s incentive for you to come home safely.” He loosened his grip on the sheet and John watched as it slipped off one shoulder. “Now, tell me. How was your day?”

 

In two months, they had gone over all the usual trivial stuff you learn at the beginning of a relationship.  John learned that Sherlock preferred tea to coffee and took two sugars but he would drink coffee when he needed an extra caffeine boost. Sherlock had learned that John liked to catch the Arsenal games when he got the chance but would make do with highlight reels and articles when he couldn’t. John would rave about James Bond movies and Sherlock would praise the cleverness of Shakespeare. They both shared a love of dogs and recounted their childhood pets. Sherlock’s Irish setter Redbeard was put down due to old age when he was in high school and John’s bulldog Gladstone was hit by a car when he was twelve. While they both did well in school academically, John learned Sherlock was somewhat of a pariah because of his difficult demeanor and propensity for boredom in class. Sherlock told him about his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and how she was basically a second mother to him. John told him about his mates that he worked with. They would share their local gossip and giggle about all their daily minutiae. 

And sometimes, if he asked real nice, Sherlock would play music for him. Sometimes it was the guitar but John's favorite was when Sherlock played the violin. Something special happened to him, then. As if the violin was a natural extension of him. John treasured every time Sherlock played the violin for him.   
  


Their conversations naturally progressed to university and deeper delvings into their lives and thoughts. While they were both a little guarded, they managed to spill a few details. After some prodding about how  _ Elementary  _ had gotten started, John had learned that Sherlock was originally interested in chemistry at uni and was set to graduate early with honors. But something happened to him that made him drop out, something he still hadn’t told John about but John refused to pry, and he said he needed to make a change. He glossed over how he did it, but he found a renewed love of music. He had learned violin and singing and dancing as a child and decided to try it all again. One day he picked up a guitar and taught himself to play. Not long after that, he began writing songs. He recruited a couple of his more talented friends to put together a band to, as he had put it, “kill time and take my mind off the annoying process of living”. John had laughed at that, even if he was dreadfully curious as to what made him change career paths so sharply. 

 

John, for his part, had told him of how he had originally wanted to be a squash player. Sherlock laughed readily at that one as John scowled half-heartedly. But, for reasons he hadn’t divulged to Sherlock because everyone deserves their own secrets, he eventually settled on medicine instead. Then, for more reasons John omitted, he decided to join the army. He told Sherlock it was to see the world, make a difference, that he had always looked good in a uniform and he wanted to take full advantage of that fact. And, while that was all true, he wasn’t going to go bringing up his alcoholic family, his homophobic and abusive father, or his sister whom he worried after and prayed for but didn’t interfere in her life because her own alcoholism left a bad taste in his mouth. 

 

He’d tell Sherlock eventually. In due time. When he was ready. 

 

This night’s story from Sherlock was about his brother. “So, there we were. Out on the beach, Mycroft splashing in the water and me trying to build a replica of the Taj Mahal out of sand, and here comes this huge wave.” He made the motion of a rolling wave and his sheet slipped further, exposing his chest to John’s full view. “Covered Mycroft and knocked him over and, as it receded, took his suit with him!”

 

John laughed heartily. “It did not!”

 

“It most certainly did,” Sherlock claimed. “We told him his suit was too big but did he listen? Nope!” 

 

In between gasps of laughter, John asked, “and that’s your favorite childhood memory?”

 

“The look on his face was rather satisfying,” Sherlock said, still snickering into his fist. “Now, what about you, John? Tell me your fondest childhood memory.”

 

John pondered for a moment but finally settled on something a little bittersweet. “When I was ten, my family held a massive Christmas dinner. Our mum’s mum was dying, you see. She was on her way out and my mum wanted grandma to have a magical last Christmas. So she invited all the aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone in the family who could feasibly make it to our house for this party. She spent a week cleaning the house, cooking and preparing for the flood of people. We normally only did a tree and our stockings, but for this mum went all out. She got tinsel, a thousand fairy lights, all this garland, all sorts of stuff to decorate the house. We turned out house into Winter Fucking Wonderland, yeah?”

 

Sherlock nodded, “sounds like a lot of fuss.”

 

“It was, but I swear, our house never looked so good. My dad who didn’t normally get into the Christmas spirit even got into it and helped us kids out. Then the day of the party came and the house was filled with people. It was the first time that my parents told me and Harry we could stay up as late as we wanted so that we could spend time with our family. And I tell you, we took full advantage of that. There’s a picture of the two of us curled up in my dad’s chair leaning on each other, dead asleep.”

 

Sherlock smiled leaned forward on his fist. “That sounds quite adorable.”

 

John grinned. “It was. For the first time, our house was filled with family until it was bursting. Everyone got along. The food was good. The presents that year was great. And grandma was the happiest I had ever seen her.” John’s smile turned a little sad. “She died a few days after New Year’s.”  

 

_ And that was the last happy Christmas we ever had, _ John added silently. 

 

“I’m glad you were able to give her some peace. That’s a lovely memory.” Sherlock stared into the computer, searching John as best he could through the pixels. “But it’s made you sad, too.” 

 

John shrugged. “It happens when you think of dead relatives.” He didn’t want to go into more detail so he just waited for Sherlock to speak next. Sherlock could tell there was more to the story but he didn’t press him. Not long after that they decided to call it a night. After blowing each other kisses and saying their goodnights, John closed the lid on his laptop and crawled into bed. 

 

Under the blankets, less enjoyable memories invaded him. Nights spent hiding out in his room from his father’s alcoholic rages. Holding Harry and trying to calm her as their mother screamed and cried. Weekends spent at friends’ houses just to try and escape to a normal house for a little while. Summer vacations from school spent almost entirely outside so as not to bother an almost perpetually unemployed father. Phantom shouts from his father shouting abuse at Harry for coming out as a lesbian. Images of his mother trying to intervene and getting backhanded for her trouble. The weight of a backpack on his back as he boarded a train bound for basic training without looking back one week after his mother died. 

 

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes to try and force them out of his mind. He had been gone from home almost two tours now. Almost eight years. In that time his father had followed his mother into the grave and Harry had gotten married, despite her own history of alcoholism. He had met Clara a couple of times and liked her. She was a steadying force in his sister’s life and he was happy for her. He just hoped that she could stay on the bandwagon and stay sober. 

 

Trying for happier thoughts, he thought of Sherlock instead. He pictured Sherlock as a young child, running across the sand of a beach, digging into and shaping the sand into castles. He tried to picture was he must’ve looked like, rosy cheeked and wild hair and bright eyes and scabby knees. He wondered what his Christmases were like, if his family had any happy traditions. If one day he might share those with him. 

 

Eventually, with thoughts of mistletoe and laughter on his mind, he fell asleep. 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Sherlock would be lying if he had said that being in a long distance relationship didn’t bother him. It had been four months since he’d held John, however briefly, in his arms and, truth be told, it was starting to gnaw at him. Not just because his transport was more active lately, waking him up with fantasies and inconvenient hard-ons. But because he worried, constantly, over John. He knew that at a base things were a little safer but he was still on active duty in a war zone. There was always a chance of something going horribly wrong and John getting hurt or worse. Frankly, it was exhausting. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Every day he put on a brave face, assuring both himself and John that it was fine that their main contact was through the internet for now. What they felt was bigger than the distance, of that he was sure. But that didn’t stop him from sighing with relief and then loneliness whenever he opened a new email from John. 

  
  


_ Hello, my clever man, _

 

_ I’m glad your last gig went well! I must admit it gives me a little thrill knowing that you played the song you wrote about us. I’m sure it was even better on stage than it was behind the barracks when you first played it for me. How is the recording going? Have you all settled on which songs to put on your EP? I’m selfishly going to request that “Only Just a Call Away” makes it on there ;-) _

 

_ Things are okay here. I just got back from a week’s stay in one of the villages, helping out the locals and seeing to their needs. Not what I usually do but there was an outbreak of gastroenteritis and we were asked to help. Normally, we send one of the medics out in this case but we’re a bit short staffed at the moment so I went with a team instead. There were quite a few sick children and a few pregnant women who were miserable with food poisoning. We did what we could, hopefully that will be enough.  _

 

_ The weather is hot as hell, dustier still, and the sun is tanning my hide better than any tanning bed in London.  I’ve been running through my drills more often lately. They want to send me out into the field for awhile, haven’t done so since I first got here. I can only guess as to why I’m being sent off-base, probably something to do with our staffing. We lost a few to discharges and a few to injuries, guess it’s just my turn. While I can’t deny it once gave me a thrill to go off-base, it’s of course got my adrenaline pumping. When I first enlisted, going out into the field was exciting. The horrors of war didn’t compare to the satisfaction I got from stitching someone up right in the thick of it.  _

 

_ But I’ve been kept on base for six years and now… Now I keep thinking of you.  _

 

_ I don’t have much in the way of family. I didn’t have many people who were waiting to hear from me, wanting to know if I was alright or if I’d gotten shot. But since I met you I’ve got a reason to come home. For more than a couple weeks on leave to blow off steam with my mates. Is that silly to say? Too presumptuous? Just thinking about you, about seeing you again makes me feel like I can tackle anything if it means coming home to see your smile again. Hope that isn’t too sentimental for your tastes, lol  _

 

_ Well. Anyway, I better log off here. I’ll try to Skype before I get sent off base. I know you don’t believe in them but send good vibes anyway. Talk to you soon, gorgeous. _

 

_ -Kisses,  _

 

_ John _

 

Sherlock’s heart hammered in his chest as he read John’s email. They were sending him off base. Not entirely uncommon, not entirely unexpected. But utterly terrifying. He knew John wasn’t special to anyone but him. He was a cog in the machine, easily replaced even if he was a doctor. Sherlock’s vision swam in front of him, the computer blurring in his view as he processed what he’d just read. Too many thoughts flooded his brain, unpleasant ones about what could happen to John, his brain telling him that he’s being ridiculous for getting so attached, his heart screaming that he  _ had _ to make it home, his veins itching for a hit to take all the other thoughts away. 

 

But he refused to let his past beat him. Not again. Instead he decided for a legal form of self destruction and climbed onto the roof of his flat for a smoke. He dragged on two full cigarettes, watching the sun set into the west before he finally felt calm again. He couldn’t bring himself to write back to John right away, afraid of what he would or couldn’t say. Obviously he couldn’t say “absolutely not, I forbid you to get shot at, please come home”. He also couldn’t convey fake excitement of John going out into danger in case it was seen as condoning. In the end, it was two days later when he finally tapped out a brief reply. 

 

_ Dear John, _

 

_ Please be careful. You are not silly or presumptuous. I want you to come home but not in a body bag. If you can call or Skype before you’re gone for awhile, please do so.  _

 

_ I miss you.  _

 

_ -Sherlock _

  
  


A few hours after he sent off his reply, his phone began to ring with John’s number in the caller ID. Sherlock snatched up his phone and answered quick as he could. 

 

“John!”

 

“Hey, gorgeous.”

 

Hearing himself be described as gorgeous hadn’t lost its effect on him and he smiled despite his worry. “How are you?”

 

“Alive, hot and sweaty, missing you.”

 

“So same as always,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, earning him a rich laugh from John. 

 

“Spot on. How are you?”

 

“Jittery, bored, worried, missing you.”

 

“Same boat, I see.”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock began to pace his sitting room, pressing the phone to his face as if it were John himself, trying to get as close as possible to him. “When are you being sent out?”

 

“Tomorrow. Just got the orders today. That’s why I called. I wanted to hear your voice before I’m out of contact for awhile.”

 

Sherlock chewed his lip, hesitating his next question. He didn’t expect an answer but he asked it anyway. “How long will you be gone?”

 

“I don’t know. Couple of weeks, best I can tell.”

 

“That’s not so bad,” Sherlock reasoned. “As long as you’re careful.”

 

“Careful as I can be,” John assured. After a pause filled with tension, John said, “now, enough about me. You didn’t tell me in your email, how’s your recording going?”

 

_ Deflection. Nervous. Guilty,  _ his mind helpfully supplied him, but Sherlock didn’t give into the urge to dwell on things he couldn’t change. Instead, he answered John’s question and ranted on about how none of them could agree on just four songs to record. So far, the only one they had agreed on was  “She Makes Me Feel”. Sherlock advised against doing covers of songs on an EP so as not to waste valuable recording space. But Greg had argued that they had some great covers and it would perk up some ears. Irene agreed with Sherlock that covers would be just a gimmick and they’d easily be looked over in favor of something original from someone else. Molly, it seemed, had no opinion. 

 

Talking to John, even if it was the trivial stuff, helped ease some of his anxiety. 

 

Unfortunately, about twenty minutes into their conversation, John had to cut them off. “I need to get going, Sherlock. Lots left to do before I leave tomorrow.”

 

“Please be safe,” Sherlock reiterated for what he was sure was the thousandth time in the last four months. He was so sick of saying it but he didn’t know what else to say. It was almost like a little prayer. 

 

“I’ll try,” John promised. “Goodbye, love.”

 

It took a full two minutes before Sherlock froze entirely, realizing what John had said. He had called him “love”, something he had never done before. He quickly dove back to the coffee table where he had dropped his phone and frantically texted John, not expecting a reply but needing to get it out nonetheless. 

 

**To: John Watson**

Did you just call me ‘love’???

 

**To: John Watson**

John Watson, if you can answer me you better do it or you will have hell to pay next time we talk!!

 

**To: John Watson**

Do you love me???

 

It was about an hour later when a reply pinged on Sherlock’s phone. It startled him, buzzing him out of his own thoughts as it buzzed between his hands and his chest where he had been clutching it.

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

Guess the cat’s out of the bag, then?

 

Sherlock’s heart soared. He shot off a quick reply before he lost the connection.

 

**To: John Watson**

You love me?!

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

Yes. Yes I do.

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

I love you. 

 

Sherlock grinned stupidly at his phone, feeling giddier than he had in a long time. He wished that John had said as much in person. Or, at the very least, when they were actually on the phone so he could hear it right from the horse’s mouth. 

 

**To: John Watson**

Why didn’t you tell me on the phone?

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

I...don’t know. 

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

Is it okay? Me saying that?

 

**To: John Watson**

What? That you love me?

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

Don’t tease! Don’t leave me hanging?!

 

**To: John Watson**

You mean like you did an hour ago?

 

**To: John Watson**

Of course it’s okay, idiot.

 

**To: John Watson**

I love you too. Obviously. 

 

Then, feeling particularly cheeky, endorphins making him reckless.

 

**To: John Watson**

And if that isn’t motivation enough for you to watch your back, I’ll add in the additional incentive of some very naked Skyping when you get back. 

 

The reply was almost instant.

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

You are a very bad man, Sherlock Holmes

 

**To: John Watson**

And yet you love me

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

God help me, I do. 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

John’s squad had been on their way back to base when they were ambushed. He was in the third humvee in a convoy of eight when their lead car hit an IED and caused a halt. While the dust was still flying, bullets rained down on the convoy. John heard the screams of men as he bolted from the vehicle, shouting orders. 

 

A good portion of the convoy managed to make it to cover behind a pile of rocks and earth, waiting for the onslaught to end so that they could return fire. John could hear the desperate, pained screams of men on both sides who had been hit during the attack and he desperately wanted to take stock of what needed to be done. Over the radio, counterstrike plans were made and the remaining troops moved in formation to go on the offensive. 

 

His job was to get the wounded to cover as quickly as possible and get to work on keeping them alive until help arrived. With the help of a few troops, two for suppressing fire and one for transport, he managed to move two wounded men to cover. He saw three men who were dead or dying but still three more crying out for help and in pain. He went back out, running for a man who had blood gushing from his leg. Before he was even kneeling at the man’s side he was pulling cord from his pack to make a tourniquet for the man’s injury. Depending on how long it took them to get back to base, he might lose the leg but he’d still be alive and that was something. Tourniquet tied, he slung the man over his shoulders and carried him to cover, screaming in pain all the way. 

 

“Come on, soldier,” John spoke to him, firmly. “I know it hurts but you have to stop moving or you’ll bleed out. Lie still, put pressure here,” he pushed a wad of gauze to the man’s bullet wound and made him press down. The man yelled in pain but did as instructed. Satisfied for the moment, John called over the radio, “where the hell is our backup? These men are going to die if we can’t get them into a vehicle and back to base!”

 

“Still ten minutes out, Captain, sir,” a voice came back. 

 

“Roger,” John replied before grabbing his gun before going back out for more men. He took two steps from cover and felt a sharp, searing pain in his left shoulder. It sucked the air from his lungs as he dropped to the ground, gasping. The pain didn’t really start until after he had fallen on his back, throbbing hard and insistent and wet. His vision began to swim as his blood pressure dropped.  _ Going into shock _ , his brain helpfully supplied even as he started to lose consciousness. He began pleading, truly pleading, for the first time in his life as he realized he may not make it home.  _ Please, God, let me live, _ he thought, struggling to remain conscious. 

 

The last thing he remembered was the sun being blocked by someone walking alongside him and the thrum of a helicopter. Then everything faded to black. 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_ “Sherlock, did you hear what I said,”  _ Mycroft’s voice said, slightly concerned. 

 

Sherlock felt numb. Frozen. He was vaguely aware that tears had collected in his eyes but his mouth refused to make his thoughts come out. 

 

_ Shot. John’s been shot. He almost died. He’s alive but it’s still uncertain. He’s still alive but he could still die. That can’t happen, he said he’d come home. He loves me, we love each other, he can’t die now. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t- _

 

_ “Sherlock!”  _ Mycroft shouted, tone begging for a reply. 

 

“He’s alive,” was all Sherlock managed to choke out through his tight throat. 

 

_ “For the moment, yes. He was shot from behind, left shoulder.” _

 

“When,” Sherlock asked. 

 

_ “Two days ago,”  _ Mycroft replied. 

 

“Two days?!” Sherlock was livid. The tears in his eyes stopped flowing for the moment while he worked himself into a froth. “Two days it’s been since he was shot and he’s been-” Sherlock’s voice tightened, choking himself with emotion. “He’s been like that for two days,” Sherlock said once more, voice softer, sounding lost. “Two days and I’m only being told now?”

 

_ “You’re lucky you know at all,”  _ Mycroft told him.  _ “You’re not next of kin. And his sister only just found out this afternoon, as well.” _

 

“Well, how do  _ you _ know, then?”

 

_ “Because I make it my business to look after your best interests. And that currently means also keeping an ear out for the well being of John Watson.” _

 

Sherlock grit his teeth, thoroughly angry. “If you wanted to “look after my best interests” then why didn’t you stop him from being sent out?”

 

_ “Because I don’t have control over who goes where, Sherlock. Movement of troops and on the ground work is not my department. Besides, what would you have had me do? Put him in a little bubble and lock him in his office? Do you think he’d have thanked you or me for interfering? For giving him preferential treatment?”  _

 

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose, already knowing the answer. He knew John would not have welcomed being protected over anyone else knowing that it would have put someone else in the line of fire. Even knowing him for such a short time, Sherlock knew John was a proud man. A brave man. Had he found out that Mycroft had interfered on Sherlock’s behalf, Sherlock knew he would be angry. 

 

Sherlock asked, in lieu of answering Mycroft’s question, “what happens now?”

 

_ “Now we wait to see if John can pull through. After that, he’ll go through rehabilitation,”  _ that word made Sherlock shiver.  _  “Then he’ll be sent to a review to see if he can return to active duty. If not, he will be medically discharged.”  _

 

A small spark of joy leapt inside Sherlock. “He’ll get to go home.”

 

_ “Yes. But you should know, Sherlock,”  _ Mycroft warned,  _ “he’ll be in for a lot of recovery. Physiotherapy, no doubt he will be referred to a therapist. If he stays in active duty he’ll not be coming home for some time. If he doesn’t he’ll have to readjust to civilian life. Either way, he won’t be the same man, Sherlock.” _

 

“Unimportant,” Sherlock scoffed, flicking his wrist petulantly at the mental image of his brother. “All that matters is that he eventually returns home.” He added, matter-of-factly, “and when he does, of course he can stay here. There’s plenty of room, it’s near the tube, Mrs. Hudson will be happy to have another person to coo and fawn over, I’m sure.”

 

_ “How do you know he’ll want to stay with you?” _

 

The thought that John wouldn’t want to live with him hadn’t occurred to him. It seemed absurd to think he wouldn’t want to recoup with Sherlock at his side. It made the most sense. Sherlock didn’t work much, he’d be around to help him. John had said before that he didn’t have a lot of family in his life. And living alone after such a trauma was unthinkable, at least to him. 

 

“Of course he would, why wouldn’t he?”

 

_ “Need I spell it out for you?”  _ At Sherlock’s silence, Mycroft sighed.  _ “He may see himself as a burden. Broken. Not fit for “polite company”, as some would say.” _

 

Sherlock snorted. “I’ve never been what you call “polite company”. I don’t think that will be much of an issue, Mycroft.” 

 

_ “All the same,”  _ Mycroft said, his tone placating,  _ “be prepared for him to want his space.”  _

 

“Duly noted.” Sherlock wanted to leave their conversation right there. But relief, worry, and anticipation clawed at his belly. So, swallowing his pride, he added, “if there’s anyway you can put the two of us in touch when he’s able to talk, I’d be in your debt.”

 

_ “Of course. As soon as it can be arranged,”  _ Mycroft promised. 

 

Sherlock hung up the phone without further conversation. In the silence of his home, the weight of what had just been told to him finally sent him shaking to the floor. The tears from before came back with a vengeance. He became overwhelmed with body wracking sobs; great, heaving gasps forcing their way out of his body as he struggled to breathe. He was petrified that John may yet die and leave him. Elated that there was hope that he would pull through. His heart ached, knowing that John was in pain and struggling. And there was the selfish joy, knowing John may not be going back on duty and that he could come home. 

 

But his brother’s words of doubt plagued him. He vowed to let John know that, in no uncertain terms, that he was welcome in Sherlock’s home. That it could be  _ their _ home. That Sherlock would do anything to help him recover, to make him happy. 

 

Sherlock didn’t know how long he had spent on the floor crying before sobering enough to sit up against the wall. Emotionally drained, he eventually picked himself up off the floor to make a cup of tea. If there was one thing he had learned in Mrs. Hudson’s company is that a cuppa could move mountains and close wounds, if properly applied. Hands still slightly shaking, he raised the beverage to his lips to swallow a few warming sips. 

 

When he felt more stable, he walked over to his chair where his violin was sitting, waiting for him. On autopilot, he tuned the strings and tucked the instrument beneath his chin. Closing his eyes, he let his fingers draw notes from the instrument. Slow, sad, dripping in sentiment, he played on. He let the music soothe him further, the stiffness from his limbs melting as he began to sway to the music. 

 

Sherlock had never been one for religion. He didn’t like the idea of relying on or obeying a god who may or may not exist. He scoffed at the idea of asking for guidance from a figment of the collective human imagination. But, as he played, exorcising his demons and coming to terms with the news of John, his notes turned into a prayer. A song, half remembered, came filtering into his mind and his fingers transcribed it into music without him realizing. 

 

His mind supplied the lyrics and, soon enough, he was humming along.  _ Maybe there's a God above, but all I've ever learned from love as how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.  _ Tears welled up beneath his closed lids but he refused to open his eyes could they could stream out.  _  And it's not a cry that you hear at night, it's not somebody who's seen the light. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah...Hallelujah...Hallelujah...Hallelujah...Hallelujah _ __   
  


As the last of the notes fell, he opened his eyes. He had been playing for hours. He could see that in the way dark had blanketed everything while he played and feel it in the warm thrumming of his tired fingers. All at once his fatigue settled on him like a worn, familiar quilt. He knew that, despite his worries, he would be able to sleep. After taking care to put his violin away, he shuffled his way to his bedroom. Within minutes, he was asleep. 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

John awoke with a gasp of pain. His eyes snapped open and a spike of adrenaline coursed through him as he tried to sit up from his prone position only to be knocked back by another stab of pain.

 

“Fuck,” he whispered weakly, hand flying to the source of pain in his left shoulder. He wrenched his eyes open once more, not realizing he had closed them, and blinked a few times to get them to focus. He was breathing hard, taking in his surroundings. He knew he was in a hospital bed, based on the linens, the risers on either side to keep him from falling out, and the curtain surrounding it. Glancing down at his arm, he saw that there was an IV and a port in his right arm. His jolt upright had tugged on the tape that held them in place and he at once was uncomfortable with it but knew better than to touch them. He tried moving his left arm but cried out and regretted it immediately. A panicked thought screamed through his mind.  _ What if I won’t ever move it again? _

 

“Oh, Captain Watson, you’re up,” a cheerful voice greeted him from the curtain as it was pulled back. A pretty blonde woman in scrubs came towards him with a clipboard and a smile that set his teeth on edge. “How are we feeling?”

 

Ignoring the question, John asked, “where am I?”

 

“You’re back at base. You’ve been out for almost three days. Can you remember anything?”

 

John searched his memory. “I was shot.” 

 

“You were. Can you recall anything else? Report said you were unconscious when you were brought in, before surgery-”

 

“Surgery?” John’s head snapped up to look at her directly. “What did they do?” 

 

The woman paused her writing on his chart and pointed at his shoulder with her pen. “You had a through and through but that bullet tore you up real good. Needed to go in and repair some of the damage. You had been out in the villages, doing paramedic work and there’s a chance of infection so we’ve got you on some powerful antibiotics.”

 

John nodded. His mouth felt dry, lips cracked. But he put that aside to ask, “my arm.” He pointed to it rather than moving, “what’s the prognosis for that?”

 

The woman looked him with a little pity and that turned John’s stomach. “We’re not sure yet. Barring any complications, you should make a full recovery. But too soon to tell.” Then she smiled and said, “would you like some water? Must be pretty cotton-mouthed over there.”

 

John nodded jerkily. He took a cup from her, careful not to spill with his weak hand, and took a sip. He passed it back and leaned back into the bed, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. He focused on taking in slow, deep breaths to combat the pain. Noticing his discomfort, the woman added, “this is the control for the morphine drip.” She pressed it into his hand. “I’m sure you know how it works,” she said with a smile. 

 

“Yeah,” he confirmed. Closing his eyes, he clicked the button twice and in a moment he could feel the pain ebbing away. He sighed in relief and said, “thank you...” Then he blinked his heavy eyes open, realizing he didn’t know who she was. “I’m sorry. I never asked your name. Rude of me.”

 

She smiled and said, “Doctor Morgan Phillips. Get some rest, now.” After she pulled the curtain closed behind her, John settled into the pillow and let the morphine do its job. He soon fell into a dreamless sleep. 

 

When he next awoke it was to a nurse coming in with a laptop and a mobile phone. John blinked away and mumbled, “whassat?”

 

“Sorry to disturb you, Captain,” the nurse said. He smiled sheepishly and explained, “this laptop was delivered not long ago. There’s a letter here and chargers. Just said to deliver to you. It’s been cleared all the way up the ladder, it seems.”

 

John squinted in confusion. He felt a little nauseous and warm but ignored that in favor of reading the letter. “Is that right?”

 

The nurse nodded and went about plugging in the laptop’s charger. He nodded to the envelope, “need help with that?”

 

“No, no,” John said quickly. “No need to trouble yourself.” Using his teeth to hold the envelope, he took the letter out. His eyebrows shot up into hairline as he read. 

 

_ Greetings, Captain John Watson,  _

 

_ I trust that you are recovering well. I’ve taken the liberty of obtaining a secure line on the mobile and the laptop is preloaded with everything you need to reach the rest of the world. I believe a mutual acquaintance of ours is very to hear from you. Since I am not able to bring him to you, this will have to do. Take care,  Doctor.  _

 

_ -M. Holmes.  _

 

John’s mouth hung open in shock. Sherlock had mentioned his brother worked for the government and that he tried to downplay his reach but John had never imagined his brother had this kind of pull. For him to be set up like this in hospital was a gift. One that he wouldn’t waste. As soon as his nurse left, John picked up the mobile that was placed on his bedside tray and unlocked the screen. Pulling up the contacts he saw two names programed, Harry’s and Sherlock’s. Smiling and shaking his head at Sherlock’s brother’s foresight, he punched a button and put the phone to his ear. 

 

On the fourth ring a voice answered,  _ “hello, Sherlock Holmes?” _

 

John’s smile widened. “Hello gorgeous.”

 

_ “John?!” _ The surprise in his voice told John that he hadn’t been expecting John to call him. Sherlock’s voice came out rushed, excited,  _ “John, I’ve been so worried, are you okay?” _

 

“They told you what happened, then?”

 

_ “Yes,” _ Sherlock replied. Then, softer, he asked again,  _ “are you alright?” _

 

“Well, I’m breathing. Resting. In a fair amount of pain.” Silence wafted from the receiver but John could hear the gears turning in Sherlock’s head even hundreds of miles away. “For a man who typically won’t shut up, you’re awfully quiet.”

 

Sherlock’s voice came raspy, broken,  _ “John.” _ The sound of it made John’s heart ache. _ “You scared me.” _

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

_ “No,” _ Sherlock said firmly.  _ “No. Don’t apologize for getting shot. Just,”  _ he paused, searching for his words,  _ “just try not to let it happen again.” _

 

John chuckled lightly, wincing at how jostled his shoulder. “I don’t plan on it any time soon.”

 

_ “Mycroft said that there’d be a review. After you’ve healed some. To see if you’re coming home or staying there.” _

 

“Yeah, that won’t happen for a bit yet, I imagine. Can barely lift my left arm, let alone write any prescriptions or stitch any wounds.” 

 

_ “Oh, _ ” Sherlock’s small voice replied.  _ “Is it...is it that bad?”  _

 

“Just for now. Doctor thinks I should make a full recovery, though. In time.”

 

_ “Oh.” _

 

That “oh” held a lot of unspoken words. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” John implored. 

 

_ “You’ll not like it,” _ Sherlock told him. 

 

John could fill in that large a blank. “You want me sent home.”

 

Sherlock was silent for a minute. Then, ask if daring John to contradict him, he asked,  _ “can you blame me?” _

 

“No. No, I can’t.” He sighed heavily, wanting to sink deep into the mattress. “But being a soldier, a doctor, it’s who I am. Can you blame me for wanting to stay?” 

 

_ “No.” _

 

The nausea from earlier bubbled up again, the possibility of Sherlock walking away from him made him sick to his stomach. John feared his next thought, not wanting to give it voice but needing to anyway. “Sherlock, if this is not something you can stomach, me going back into service, then-”

 

_ “Stop right there, John Watson,”  _ Sherlock told him, fire in his voice.  _ “Yes, it’s hard knowing that you’ve been hurt in the line of duty. You almost died.”  _

 

John licked his lips, “but?”

 

_ “But I love you.”  _ Hearing it from Sherlock’s lips for the first time made John’s breath hitch.  _ “I love you and of course I want you safe. I want you home with me. But, most of all I want you happy. And I can’t tell you what will do that, can I? Only you can.”  _

 

Tears welled up in John’s eyes. Voice still even, for the moment, John said, “I want you to be happy, too, Sherlock.” He took a deep breath and said, “I love you.” 

 

A comfortable silence passed between them before Sherlock spoke again.  _ “I want you to know that, when you do come home, that you can come home to me. My home...it can be your home, too.” _

 

John giggled, “Sherlock Holmes, are you saying you want to move in with me?”

 

_ “Is that bad?” _

 

“No,” John said, joy filling him. “No, not bad at all.”

 

_ “In whatever condition you come home in,”  _ Sherlock assured.

 

John laughed aloud, “that’s ominous of you. But I appreciate it.”

 

_ “It’s the truth,” _ Sherlock insisted.  _ “All that matters is that I get to see your face when we wake up. That your legs tangle in the sheets with mine. That your arms hold me at night.” _

 

“That sounds dangerously like sentiment,” John said, still grinning. 

 

_ “Yes, well, _ ” Sherlock replied, feathers evidently a little ruffled at being called out at sentimental.  _ “I blame you and your influence. And your fraying my nerves.” _

“Sorry for worrying you, love.” Suddenly, John felt very lightheaded and overly warm.  _ Probably those bloody antibiotics _ , he reasoned with himself. Anticipating another lie down, he said, “Sherlock, I’m feeling a bit worn out. Think I’m going to try to sleep again.”

 

_ “Oh, oh yes, of course. Call me again soon?” _

 

“Absolutely. I promise.”

 

_ “Good. Rest well, John. I love you.” _

 

“Love you too, gorgeous. Bye.”

 

No sooner had John hung up the phone had John’s vision begun to swim and his body started to twitch. He was vaguely aware of the machines next to him beeping and two people rushing to his bedside. Their words slurred in his mind and his vision faded to black. 

 

The next time he awoke he was told he had had a seizure, courtesy of a MRSA infection. His doctors managed to get it under control and he was once again on the road to recovery. They tried to keep him optimistic but John knew the rules as well as anyone. Once you have a seizure, for safety reasons, discharge was imminent. 

 

Whether he liked it or not, John was going home to London. 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_ “Are you sure you don’t want some company when you get him from Heathrow?” _

 

“I’m sure, Molly. I appreciate it but I think it might overwhelm him. It’s a lot to process.”

 

_ “I’ll bet. First getting shot, fighting off MRSA, that seizure, and now he’s got to come home to finish his recovery. That’s a lot” _

 

Sherlock hummed in reply as he checked his appearance in the mirror. He hoped that John would appreciate the suit that he chose, black with a purple shirt he knew would compliment his pale skin. He mentally checked off his list in his head;  _ fridge is stocked, John’s favorite tea in the cupboard, biscuits as well, sheets have been changed in the room upstairs, sheets changed in my room, floor clear of clutter, space in the closet cleared out- _

 

_ “Sherlock, are you listening?” _

 

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I’ll ask if he wants to get together with the rest of you soon. He said his mates from school want to have some kind of to-do but he wasn’t thrilled about the idea. When I know you’ll know.”

 

_ “Right, then. Best be off, go get your soldier,”  _ she said with a giggle. 

 

Sherlock hung up and made his way to the car Mycroft had provided him. The whole ride to Heathrow Sherlock fidgeted, his mind working overtime. He wondered how John was faring on his long flight from Afghanistan, how his shoulder was, how his leg was, if he was truly okay with coming home like he said, if his flat was going to be sufficient, if he would take the second room, if he would decide that he was a burden and back out of moving in, if he’d retreat into himself or if he would talk to Sherlock about what was going on in his brain. 

 

Too many questions and too many variable for comfort. 

 

_ But he’s coming home. That’s all that matters. He’s alive and he’s coming home.  _

 

The car pulled up in front of John’s terminal and the driver said he’d be back around whenever Sherlock called. Sherlock thanked him and made his way to the international arrivals gate. His face was a mask of calm but he couldn’t stop his fingers from fidgeting. His eyes scanned the trickle of people coming from the gate, knowing John wouldn’t be out just yet. Then, slowly, the trickle became a flood. All around him, people were hugging and kissing their loved ones. Greetings of many languages sounded in his ears and he got slightly jostled when one exuberant family spotted each other and gave each other an amorous hug. 

 

Then, as if sensing his very presence, Sherlock spotted him. Walking with a cane, limping slightly with a duffel bag slung over his good shoulder, John came walking out of the gate. Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat and butterflies threatened to fly out of his mouth. A mixture of elation and shock at his appearance swept over him as he took John in. 

 

_ A little pale despite being in the desert, loss of weight and muscle mass but that’s to be expected, bags under his eyes, obviously tired and in pain. Scanning the crowd, looking for me. _

 

Before he could stop himself, he shouted, “John!”

 

John’s head snapped in his direction. Surprise was followed by a fond smile and then he was making his way to Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t wait that long. He hopped the railing and strode with purpose into John’s arms. Once reunited, he breathed in deeply the man he loved, hugging him tightly to him. John dropped his duffel and gripped him back just as tightly. 

 

Without lifting his head from Sherlock’s chest, John said, “hello, gorgeous.”

 

“Hello, John.” Sherlock’s hands drifted up to cup John’s head and pull it up so he could look at him in the eye. Just before pressing a kiss to John’s lips, Sherlock whispered, “welcome home.” 


End file.
